


A Lost Soul Among Dragons

by DeadlyRecon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 21:46:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15894753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadlyRecon/pseuds/DeadlyRecon
Summary: Roaming the Red Waste after Drogo's death, and her Khalasar struggle to survive. Out of food, out of water, and out of options, she sends her three Blood Riders to scout for what lay beyond. But when one returns with a mysterious stranger in tow, the last Targaryen learns of a world farther than any other. And just how much it may come to change her own.





	1. PRELUDE

**Author's Note:**

> Fair Warning: Some words or phrases used in this story may be offensive to certain parties. Please understand it is done for the sake of realism and authenticity in regards to the story and the characters. The opinions, thoughts, and/or actions of a character or group of characters does not reflect those of the author. Thank you.

**PRELUDE**

_"_ _Death is easy. Survival is hard. 'Life' is something else entirely. Surviving means to wake up the next morning still breathing and fight another day. It means having just enough luck to see another rotation of the clock pass by. To be spared from death for however longer it decides to wait and haunt you. But that's not 'living', is it...?"_

* * *

It was a hot and arid day. The sand beneath coarse and the sun above scorching. On and on the desolate landscape went, barren of all but dead dirt and rocks for miles in every direction. There was not a cloud in the sky to mar its light blue color, nor was a single blade of grass in the ground to cover its reddish hue. The locale was a near perfect description of hell on Earth.

And a suitable place for him to suffer an agonizingly slow demise.

How he arrived in this godforsaken land, he couldn't recall. What he did remember was suffering a nasty injury to the leg, and how said wound was responsible for the bloody and painful state his limb was currently in. The circumstances surrounding the occurrence of his injury, however, were foggy and muddled in his memory. Perhaps it was the blood loss. Perhaps it was whatever event that had led him to this wasteland. Whatever the case may have been, it changed nothing. He was still isolated in the middle of the desert. He was still lying in a small puddle of his own blood. He was still going to die.

The world began to lose its color soon enough. The pain of his lifeforce leaving him eventually faded away. Moments before his drop into unconsciousness, he chose to embrace the bliss of his body's cold numbness. At least he could sleep and die within the painless fantasies of his dreams.

The figure that approached on horseback was never seen.


	2. - I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Game of Thrones TV series and A Song of Ice and Fire books are the sole property of HBO and G.R.R. Martin, respectively. All characters depicted here, besides my OC(s) belong to their legitimate owners.

**I**

**Daenerys**

Her people were starving. They had been rationing their supply of food and water for weeks, but now the stores were beginning to run dry. Sooner or later they would have to begin eating the horses. When the meat was fully consumed and the blood used, though, she feared for what came next. Would they resort to cannibalism? Would they be forced to commit to lotteries to decide who lived and who died? Or would she be forced to make those decisions herself? The prospect was as frustrating as it was terrifying. After all, she had promised her people their enemies would die screaming.

But how did one make hunger and thirst scream?

Daenerys Targeryen did not know the answer, nor did Ser Jorah Mormont – her most trusted adviser. So, in an act of desperation, she had sent her best warriors to act out as scouts. One to the East, the second to the Northeast, and the third to the Southeast. That task, however, had been given days ago. Now she and her remaining people who had not yet perished in these badlands sat in wait, hoping for any sign of good news in the form of a returning scout. They could do little more. Their bodies had begun thinning from hunger, and their lips had long grown chap from the shortage of water. Every hour of every day was met with the sweltering sun above, leaving her usual fair white skin burned and battered. Her normally elegant silver-gold hair was bleached due to overexposure.

"Khaleesi." She was brought out of her wandering thoughts of dread by Jorah, who was resting under the shade of the same erected canvas as herself. The middle-aged Westerosi exile was in even worse physical shape, having preferred to share much of his rations the past few days with the newly titled Mother of Dragons. He was as kind and noble as he was loyal. His poor reputation with the lords of the North may have been justified years ago, but she couldn't help but feel it was undeserved. "It's Rakharo."

Daenerys barely registered his words before the man struggled to his feet. It was then she noticed the figure of a horse and its rider approaching, the heat and her exhaustion slightly clouding the finer details. It didn't take long for recognition to come, and all too quickly she felt a surge of energy flow through her body. Little time was wasted in her decision to stand up and follow behind Jorah.

As the horseman stopped in front of them, appearing rundown and malnourished like the others, his lips managed to twitch lightly upward. " _Blood of my blood_ ," he said in his native tongue of Dothraki. His voice was rough and scratchy, indicating his restlessness and depravity. " _I return to you._ "

She looked at the young man with a genuine smile. Rakharo, the scout to have gone Northeast, was her most loyal Blood Rider. The one who had always stayed at her side, even after her late husband's death. " _Blood of my blood. You return with good news, I hope?_ "

At this, his face turned to a small frown. " _Not good, but_..." He then looked over his shoulder to something behind him. " _Not bad either._ "

Daenerys' smile disappeared when she followed his gaze and realized he had not returned alone. Being dragged gently in the dirt by the stallion was a canvas-made-stretcher, carrying within it an unconscious man wrapped in Dothraki cloth from shoulder-to-foot. She immediately, but slowly, walked over to the unknown individual and knelt beside him. Hastily examining the details of his face, she instantly took notice of his features: light colored but sunburnt skin, shortly cropped dark brown hair, long and hairless face, and squared chin. " _He looks Westerosi._ " She looked back to Rakharo with a questioning stare. " _Where did you find him?_ "

" _In the sands, Khaleesi._ "

Confused by his answer, she took on a more piercing look in her eyes. " _You simply came across him? In the middle of the desert?_ "

" _I know it sounds impossible, but it is the truth._ " The Blood Rider shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. " _He was already nearing death from a wound on his leg when my horse almost trampled him. He would have died had I not stopped the bleeding._ "

Jorah chose this moment to interject into the conversation, speaking in Westerosi. "I do not believe it was wise for Rakharo to bring him back here." The response Daenerys shot back at him was a swiftly turned glare. He explained himself before she could say a word. "We are already low on food and water as it is, Khaleesi. This man will be nothing more than another mouth to feed. A mouth that, might I add, will provide us no aid." He gestured to the unconscious man to emphasis his point. "In his current state, he will only serve as a liability."

"Then what would you have me do?" The Mother of Dragons' question was sharp, but not filled with any anger. Truth be told, she agreed with her adviser. This man did not belong to her Khalasar. He was a stranger who, for all she knew, might not take too kindly to be in the proximity of Dothraki. If his appearance was any indication to his ancestry lying in Westeros, he might favor being in the presence of a Targaryen even less so. Or he could drop to his knees the moment he woke up and declare his support for her. She just didn't know. Regardless, she remained hesitant to the idea of abandoning a man who so clearly needed the help. "Are you suggesting we leave him here to die?"

He remained silent for a moment in contemplation before meeting her gaze. "Sometimes it is best to forego the providing of aid when there is no such aid to give. If you care for your people, then you must tend to them and only them during their times of need."

It pained her to admit it, but Jorah won this debate. It was either risk the lives of her Khalasar even further or abandon a total stranger with no ties to her. For anyone else, it would have been an easy choice. But for Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, choosing to practically kill a man who had not yet proven to deserve it was difficult.  _Perhaps it will be easier knowing he will perish in his sleep_ , she thought morbidly.

" _There is more, Khaleesi._ " Rakharo quickly gained their attention with that statement. " _You can't see them now, but his clothes... they are strange._ "

Jorah's expression changed to one of puzzlement. He opened his mouth as if to ask a question, but instead decided against it and chose to investigate himself. After crouching down beside Daenerys, he began unwrapping the Dothraki cloth covering the unconscious man. What this action uncovered only led to bewilderment.

What the man wore was unlike anything they had ever seen. Both his shirt and pants were decorated entirely with a strange blocky pattern of colors, which varied from a light brown to a desert tan. Over his chest was what could only be described as a dark tan sleeveless vest of some sorts. Hanging off the front of the vest were several large pouches, containing what appeared to be pieces of metal – some large and blocky while others were small and spherical. Out of curiosity, Jorah knocked on the vest several times, only for his knuckles to hit something hard. It was like a plate of steel was hidden under the exterior's softer material. The strangest detail, however, was a small patch made from some kind of fiber or cloth that was attached near the top of the vest.

Daenerys leaned forward to get a better look at it and found words written upon it, much to her surprise. Even more astounding was the fact the words were using alphabetical letters from the Common Tongue of Westeros. "P-F-C Anthony Weber," she read aloud, not truly understanding what she was reading. "U-S-M-C." Placed above the words was a bizarre symbol: a marble combined with a ship's anchor and an eagle. Confusion clearly written on her face, she looked back toward Jorah. "Can you make anything of this?"

He shook his head in response, the expression on his face showing his equal confusion. "Only that 'Anthony Weber' sounds like a name."

"It is a name unlike I've ever heard." She pointed to the symbol on the patch. "And this sigil. I don't recognize it."

"An eagle, a marble, and an anchor. I can't say I recognize it either."

Before any more could be said or discovered, Rakharo reached behind himself and removed a large sack that had been hanging off the back of his horse. He let it fall to the ground, resulting in a loud and metallic impact. " _I also found these on him. They are stranger._ "

Daenerys was the first to maneuver over to the fallen sack and open it, revealing an array of outlandish devices as well as a rucksack adorning the same pattern of colors as the man's clothing. What caught her eye above everything else, though, was a bulky tool of blackened metal. If what she had seen before was believed weird, then this object laying before her was truly the strangest thing she had ever seen. There wasn't any real way she could describe it; only that it was as long as a short sword, had a steel pipe sticking out of one end, what appeared to be a handle on the top meant for carrying the object, and had a sliver of metal vaguely similar in design to some crossbow triggers she had seen. Was that what it was? Some sort of crossbow-like weapon? If it was, she couldn't tell what it fired or how it did so. There did not seem to be any kind of mechanism that enabled the loading of a bolt. Nor were there strings that allowed for the firing of such a projectile. For all she could really tell, it looked like a culmination of several blocky pieces of iron crafted together.

She reached to pick up it with both hands, expecting it to weigh a considerable amount. However, she was taken aback by how light it truly was, the object not possibly weighing any more than ten kilograms. "So large, yet light," she muttered quietly before turning to Jorah. "Do you have any idea what this could be?"

"I cannot hope to tell you," he answered soberly. He too was eyeing the object in curiosity. "I'm just as baffled by this contraption as you are."

The Khaleesi gently placed it back down, not seeing the point of looking any longer for answers from something that cannot give them. She returned to the pile of various other odd gadgets and just could not help but wonder what they all were. She decided probing through it all was best for another time, and instead chose to examine the rucksack. Seeing what was inside it, however, came as a bit of a challenge. "I don't understand," she declared in frustration. "This is a bag, is it not?"

Jorah raised an eyebrow. "It appears to be so."

"Then why can I find no way to open it?"

" _Allow me._ " Rakharo had dismounted his horse by this point. He took the rucksack when Daenerys surrendered it and unsheathed a Dothraki dagger, then plunged the blade into the bag and ripped into it. It took a bit of effort with the material being quite tough, but he nevertheless returned the bag to her with a new opening.

With a thankful nod of her head, she dipped her hand inside and started poring over its contents. She actually felt a tinge of excitement to search for the treasures it might hold. But much to her disappointment, she found nothing but more strange items and more questions. There wasn't a single thing she recognized. The Mother of Dragons was on the verge of giving up when, at the very bottom of the rucksack, she came across a small booklet about thirteen centimeters wide and twenty centimeters tall. Pulling it out in the daylight, she noticed the title on the all red hard cover appeared to have been written by hand. Furthermore, whoever wrote it had scribbled out two other titles before apparently finding one that was favorable. "'Days of a Devil Dog' by Anthony Weber." Her gaze shifted back to the unconscious man when realization hit her.

It was his journal.

 _Finally_ , she thought with a sense of relief.  _Some answers._  Daenerys opened the small booklet to the first page, ready to dive into this Anthony Weber's story. Jorah, however, stopped her with a tap on the shoulder. "Perhaps it can wait." It was more a statement than a request.

"Why," she asked, slightly annoyed her investigation was halted. Jorah didn't answer, instead allowing her to notice how people had begun gathering around. Their expressions were equally curious and wishful, hoping for some good news to have been brought back with the returning scout. One young Dothraki woman in particular separated herself from the rest and proceeded to close the distance between herself and Rakharo. A strained but no less genuine smile spread on her lips, and as the Blood Rider met her gaze he responded in kind. Daenerys watched them embrace with a small smile of her own.

A moment later, Jorah turned back to the Mother of Dragons. "I'll begin collecting everything for you. Maybe I'll manage to give it all a semblance of order by the time you wish to go through it."

"You do that." She nodded her head in agreement and stood up to her feet. She was about to return to the meager shade of the erected canvas tent, but her advisor had yet to move. His eyes were still upon her as if he still wished to speak. "Yes, Ser Jorah?"

He finally looked away towards the unconscious man – now known as Anthony Weber. "And what of him, Khaleesi?"

In the wake of the question, she too brought her attention back to the man. Laying down in the jumble of Dothraki cloth, he almost appeared to be in a state of peaceful slumber. Innocent and helpless. Of course, she thought it highly unlikely this grown man was worthy of such regard, but she couldn't help it. Everything they had seen of him, from his clothing to his equipment, spoke of a great mystery. A mystery she wished to solve. And it would only be solved if he was to survive his wounds and awake to tell his story. "We will look after him...

"... for now."

—

**_Three Days Later..._ **

_I'm not sure why I got this weird idea to start writing a journal. Just happened to come across some books and supplies one of the guys was getting rid of and the thought just came to me. Maybe I had some stupid feeling that I needed to start writing down everything that happens from here on out. Maybe it's just the nerves. I don't fucking know. No one ever said going to war doesn't put you a little on edge. It's freaking me out as much as its hyping me up. Doesn't really matter now anyways. I'm getting shipped off to fight and kill some Taliban._

_Entry #1  
_ _July 17th, 2008_

_0635: First day in the sandbox. Farah Province, Afghanistan. I'm already hating it. Don't know why anyone would want to live here. It's nothing like the United States. The terrain is shitty. The government is shitty. I wouldn't trust the local Afghan police with a dollar bill, let alone an AK at my six. Place looks like it'd probably all go to hell in an instant if we weren't here to keep things in check._

_Nick hates it even more. The guy hasn't stopped bitching and moaning since we got off the bird._

_0720: At least there's some sweet looking haji girls to look at every now and then. One of them really cute ones waved at us while we were on our way to the outpost. With fine women like that, it's beyond me why the Taliban likes stirring shit up._

_0800: Outpost Lorenzo. Nothing more than a bunch of hesco and sandbags strapped together with glue and duct tape. Our new home for the next few months. Guess I shouldn't have expected anything less from the Corps._

_At least Nick stopped bitching. His shit was starting to get real annoying._

_1200: We finally got ourselves set up and been assigned our posts. I got watch with Hernan tonight at 2000. Southwest barricades. Never really talked to the guy before today, but he seems pretty chill so far. He sure as hell can't be as bad as Nick. I almost feel bad for George. He got stuck with the pain in the ass on the North side._

_We did get some good news though. Word is brass is planning a sweep on some village in the area. Don't know where exactly it's going down yet, but it's happening sometime soon. Just thinking about our first taste of combat is getting us all pumped up. This is what we Devil Dogs were trained to do._

_1930: The day passed by without much else happening. Got as familiar as we could with the set up of the outpost, then went off to do all the mundane shit that's expected of us. Change the oil of a humvee. Clean your rifle. Try not to fall asleep around Jackson. The usual crap. I guess it keeps us busy. Stops us from getting into real trouble._

_Watch starts in about fifteen minutes. Probably just going to spend the time getting to know Hernan better. After that I'm hitting the bunk and going spend my first night in Afghanistan. Ain't going to be anything exciting about it._

She found it all so very outlandish. Half of what was written didn't make any sense, due in no small part to the extensive use of unfamiliar slang and entirely foreign time and calendar systems. Yet at the same time, reaching inside the mind of Anthony Weber just a tad was oh so very alluring. Clearly a soldier if his journal entries were to be interpreted correctly, he was certainly not of either Westeros or Essos. He wrote of locations even Ser Jorah had never heard of, such as this 'Afghanistan'. Daenerys assumed the country was not his home, but rather the country he was based in during the conflict against the so called 'Taliban' he participated in. He obviously held no love for it. Instead, she thought this 'United States' he mentioned might have been his homeland. It was impossible to be certain until she read further.

Jorah walked up to her then, a water skin in hand. "An interesting read, I presume," he asked as he offered her the beverage.

She gratefully accepted it and relished the sensation of water soaking her mouth and throat. Kovarro, her second Blood Rider, had returned earlier that day with full saddlebags and news of a place named Qarth. He didn't return with too much food and drink, but it was enough to last them the journey to this trader city where they hoped to find welcoming hosts. A small smirk appeared on her face after she finished her share of the water skin. "I fear our new companion isn't the greatest of writers."

"Oh?" Her adviser raised his eyebrow in amusement. "Have you refused to let it go just for the joy of setting it ablaze yourself?"

Daenerys chuckled at that. "No, I don't believe I'll be discarding it just yet. While there is certainly room for more charm, the tale it tells happens to be quite intriguing."

"Aye, what you've shared with me so far does beg the ear." As the two of them continued walking, his smile slowly began to disappear. It was soon replaced with an expression of serious concern. "What do you make of it?"

A sigh escaped her lips. She knew what Jorah meant with that question. He wanted to know if she believed the story was more than just fiction. If she thought the booklet told the truth of a world unheard of before now. There was a very real possibility what Anthony Weber had written down was nothing more than the workings of a great imagination. All she'd come to learn could just be part of a large fabrication. But there was this nagging voice in the back of her mind telling her that simply wasn't the case. Everything they had found, from the odd items he carried to his clothes, pointed to the man's journal being true to its words. "To be honest... I don't know."

He accepted the answer with a nod. "All great mysteries have their fair share of truth and lies, Khaleesi."

Daenerys didn't know what his thoughts on the subject were, but she could see he understood the reasoning behind her response regardless. Such acceptance was one of the many qualities of the exiled knight she greatly appreciated. "Perhaps you are correct in that assessment, Ser Jorah." She shifted her gaze back to the journal, now closed shut with only the front cover visible, and allowed herself to get lost in her thoughts. "Perhaps every tale has its shade of gray."

**CHAPTER END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more of my works and slightly faster updates, follow me on FanFiction.net. Thank you for reading my fanfic, and I hope you continue to enjoy it!


	3. - II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Game of Thrones TV series and A Song of Ice and Fire books are the sole property of HBO and G.R.R. Martin, respectively. All characters depicted here, besides my OC(s), belong to their legitimate owners.

**II**

**Anthony**

When he first opened his eyes, feeling the warm air in his throat and the dry climate against his skin, it came as a shock. He had not expected to ever awake again. After all, he had been dying alone in the middle of a desert with a mangled leg he had been unable to successfully bandage. Never would he have claimed to be highly proficient in medical aid, but he was confident one of his arteries had been shredded. There had been enough blood everywhere to warrant such an assessment. And even if he had managed to somehow survive his injury, it appeared he had gotten left behind. Abandoned in the endless stretches of sand. By all rights, he should have died, whether from the bullet hole in his leg or the effects of dehydration and starvation.

Momentarily putting aside his miraculous escape from death, Anthony's next thoughts went straight to the bed he now found himself resting in. It was much too long since he last managed to relax on a quality mattress. Ever since his enlistment in the Marine Corps began and he was dropped into the small hell that was Parris Island, he hadn't taken to affording the comfort of anything beyond government-provided furniture. Bunks in the military weren't meant for leisure; they were barely acceptable for sleeping on. With this bed, however, he easily could've gotten lost in its soft and inviting cushioning. It was an object made for luxury.

Following that was the spacious room around him. Brightly lit by sunlight flowing in through several open-air windows, it looked like something out of a rich man's dreams. The windows were lined with curtains made of silk so fine and smooth they alone must have costed a small fortune. Extravagant furnishings littered and decorated the room, and the table in the center held china so ornate it all appeared to be akin to a well-kept antique collection. In fact, everything seemed like it was ripped straight out of a history museum exhibit, candle stands and all. He figured the owner of the building must be ridiculously wealthy, as well as incredibly forthcoming to have taken in a wounded marine under his or her care. American sympathizers tended to be large targets for the Taliban. Which only further begged the questions: Where the hell was he? And who had saved his life?

He attempted to sit up then, his muscles stiff and aching from lack of use, when he noticed for the first time the unfamiliar clothing he was wearing. Replacing his desert MARPAT camouflaged FROG combat shirt and trousers were a pair of cotton garments. The white shirt was a bit tight around the shoulders, while the brown pants were well fitted around his waist but stretched too far passed his heels. Similar to everything else he'd seen so far, the clothes looked very old fashioned. Almost like something taken out of a renaissance fair.

A feminine gasp suddenly echoed, giving Anthony cause to see a lone woman now standing near the doorway at the other end of the room. She had brown hair so dark it was nearly black, and the shade of her skin combined with her facial features gave her a very Arab appearance. Her clothing, however, was far from Middle Eastern in style. They were something to be expected from a... well, the only thing he could think of to make a comparison to was a Mongolian nomad. Seeing as she was stunned by finding him conscious, he decided to take the initiative in setting up a dialogue. Unfortunately, he didn't know any Arabic – there was no reason to believe he wasn't still somewhere in Afghanistan – and so had to fall back on the hope she understood English.  _Should've remembered those damn Arabic lessons from the Marine Net course_ , he thought grudgingly.  _Only makes sense that mistake would come back to bite me in the ass_. "Uh... hi." It wasn't one of his best introductions by any stretch of the means, but these were strange circumstances.

She responded near instantaneously, but not in English  _or_  Arabic. Although he couldn't speak it, the marine had heard it enough times to know what it sounded like. What she spoke almost sounded like the Middle Eastern language at first, yet it quickly proved to be something else entirely. More guttural and rough. She must have noticed he didn't understand her, as she hastily went on to correct the problem. "Stay." Only one word before she turned around and left the room.

Her use of English startled him for a moment, but he recovered quickly.  _Guess my luck hasn't run out just yet_. Finding no reason to disobey the woman's command for the meantime, Anthony took the opportunity to inspect his leg. He found his wound, located a few inches above his kneecap, wrapped tightly in white gauze. It wasn't stained red, indicating either the bleeding had long been stopped or the dressings had been changed recently. However, he couldn't examine it any further. The sound of footsteps at the room's entrance drew his attention.

When the same woman from a few moments ago came walking in, she was accompanied by a middle-aged man dressed in a dark brown Scottish-style long skirt and a beige cotton shirt with some sort of blue undergarment underneath. He was a bit tall, likely reaching somewhere around six feet, and had a full beard stretching around his face. His light brown hair had feint signs of graying and his face was beginning to freckle, giving proof of his older age. His blue eyes fell upon the recently awoken marine with a sharp look, staring with an inquisitive gaze. It was like he was sizing up a possible threat. "Can you understand me," the man asked stoically with a light British accent.

If Anthony had been surprised to hear the woman speak English, seeing an Englander was knocking his brain sideways. He spent a few seconds looking back and forth between the two individuals. "Um, yeah." The puzzlement in his voice was as clear as day. "I understand you just fine."

"Good. Can you walk?"

The marine's gaze darted back to his wounded leg for a split second. "Not without help."

"I assumed that would be the case," the middle-aged man said with a small understanding nod. He then turned to the woman standing beside him. "Irri here will aid you until a suitable cane can be found."

The woman – Irri as she had been called – wordlessly proceeded to move over to the bed and help Anthony maneuver off the mattress. He accepted without protest; he would've had to be crazy to argue against receiving the attention of a cute girl. And cute she was, in his opinion. "Works for me." A small smile was given to her before he looked back to the man. "But mind if I ask where you're taking me? Actually, think you can tell me where we are to begin with?"

"Any questions you have regarding state-of-affairs will be answered in due time. As for where you are going... we're taking you to the woman who saved your life."

The man said not a word more before he stepped out of the room, leaving the interested marine to be quietly aided to his feet by Irri. "Thanks," Anthony said with another smile before reaching the door, to which she responded with a small nod. They entered a hallway with several other closed doors on both sides once they left the room, finding the middle-aged man to have merely been waiting there instead of inside. He about-faced toward the bright light at the far end of the long corridor upon seeing the two and silently proceeded onward. "So... you said a woman saved my life?"

"Yes," the man answered as dryly as the first time.

"Who is she?"

"You will meet her soon enough."

"How did she save me?"

"She can answer that for you."

Anthony cringed slightly as his irritation with the ongoing back-and-forth grew. The older man was replying to his questions without actually providing any solid answers. Feeling the need to act out his part as a disgruntled marine for just a moment, he decided to take a shot at messing around with the guy. "Is she at least cute?"

To this, the man turned his head to send a not-so-subtle glare. It quickly shifted into an annoyed frown once he noticed Anthony's smirk. "Must you ask so many questions?"

The marine shrugged, smug smile on his face. "I just woke up in a weird place. Can you blame me for being curious?"

"No," the man sighed bitterly. "I guess not."

The trio reached the end of the hallway at that moment, a sudden wave of heat washing over them. Anthony passed through the open doorway covering his eyes, the direct exposure to sunlight causing them to sting and tear up. Irri ceased their movement and granted him some time to adjust. "Damn," he muttered to himself. It took about five to ten seconds, but when his vision did finally adapt he was met with the fascinating scene of a lush and fertile courtyard. Trees, shrubs, and a wide variety of plant life were placed all about the small area, giving a controlled feeling of natural chemistry rather than wild and untamed growth. The perimeters walls were, interestingly, made from an old style of large brick. They kind of resembled castle walls. "Woah."

"Like what you see?"

The marine spared a glance to the middle-aged man and nodded. "Yeah. It's..."

"Marvelous?"

"'Marvelous' is a good word for it, I guess."

"If you admire these gardens, you might be surprised by the splendor of the rest of the city."

 _City?_  Anthony's attention shifted entirely back to the man, eyebrow raised. Before he could ask the new question on his mind, however, the recipient of his curious gaze started walking down a pathway leading deeper into the courtyard. It was then, as Irri prompted the wounded marine to follow, that he finally noticed the other people moving throughout. Men and women all dressed in attire similar to his aid's. What truly caught him off guard, though, were the tools all of the men were carrying with them.  _Are those swords?_  "Who are you people," he asked her as he stared confounded at the sickle-shaped blades.

She looked at him with a somewhat puzzled expression. "Have you never seen Dothraki before today?"

"Is that what your people are called? Dothraki?" She nodded in affirmation before he continued. "Can't say I have. Are you an Afghani tribe or something like that?"

Rather than give an immediate answer like he expected, Irri instead stared at him with the same expression as before. She did so long enough for him to begin feeling uncomfortable and confused. "No," she finally said after nearly half of a minute. Her reply frustrated him further, but not another word was shared between them.

The middle-aged man continued guiding them through the courtyard, eventually leading them to an area that narrowed down to a single stone pathway. At the end of the path was a set of stairs that raised upward to what looked like a large second story balcony at first glance. It was at the bottom of this staircase that the man stopped and turned back toward the marine. "She has already been informed of your awakening, and will be waiting for you above. I insist you remain respectful and provide her the proper courtesy."

Anthony narrowed his eyes. "I wasn't raised in a pigsty if that's what your implying."

"I wasn't implying anything," he stated sharply. The next few seconds were spent with the elder man and the wounded marine staring each other down, before eventually the man decided to end whatever disagreement they were having before it really started. He walked up the stairs and silently motioned for Anthony and Irri to follow.

For whatever reason, it was blatantly obvious to the marine that the man didn't trust him. How an unconscious person near death could agitate someone so, he had no clue. The fact only added another annoying piece to the giant puzzle he found himself in.  _Damn Brit_ , he thought sourly as Irri helped him up the stone staircase. His eyes would have been piercing the back of the older man's head had they been daggers.  _Needs to get that stick out of his ass_. Anthony would have continued with that train of thought, but that all went out the window once he reached the top of the stairs. His desire to dwell on his agitation for the Englander flew away like a leaf on the wind.

It was a simply-designed if not lavishly decorated bedroom, with a single queen-sized bed, a round wooden coffee table, two end tables made of stone, and a few other smaller pieces of elegantly fashioned wooden furniture. The window curtains were of a golden, almost see-through fabric rather than silk. In one corner of the room was an immense statue that looked to be made of genuine gold; it was probably worth millions. However, all of these luscious examples of great expenses were nothing in comparison to the woman sitting at the small table. Her long slightly curled hair, which reached down to her waist, was of a bright silver-gold color unlike anything the marine had seen before. Her slender and petite figure boasted smooth and unblemished skin that still appeared pale and creamy even while it advertised a light sun-brown tan. Her youthful face held no flaws, such as a freckle or a scar, that marred its image of delicate grace. The strange yet riveting dress she wore, consisting of a brown leather skirt, a purple cotton midriff, and a golden trinket that went around her neck and down over her breasts, enhanced her features even more so. But it was her eyes that captured him. Their vibrant and exotic shade of pure violet met his unremarkable dark brown, and in less than a moment he was ensnared by their allure. They were almost hypnotic – eyes a man could easily fall in love with at first sight.

The woman in front of him wasn't just beautiful. She was, he dared think, physically  _perfect_.

"If I didn't know any better, I would believe you were frozen in awe by the sight of a living member of my bloodline." Her voice, accented in what sounded like a Londoner dialect, carried with it a sense of strength and confidence. "It is good I know better." Her gaze momentarily moved to the middle-aged man, who in turn proceeded to clear his throat.

It was then Anthony realized he had been staring at the women and no doubt making himself look a fool. He awkwardly shifted in place, ignoring what she had said and mentally degrading himself for such a poor first impression. "Alright," he mumbled before straightening his back and speaking up. "Private First Class Anth-"

"We know who you are, Anthony Weber," she interrupted abruptly. "There is no need for an introduction on your part." She lifted her hand and gestured toward the chair across the table from her. "Please, take a seat. It must be uncomfortable walking around with a leg that hasn't yet healed."

He didn't know what to make of that. It was to be expected she at least knew his name and affiliation, considering she was the one who saved his life, but the way she was staring at him with that knowing look gave him the feeling she knew much more than he would have liked. "That'd be appreciated. My leg's been aching ever since I woke up." It wasn't a lie.

She waited until Irri gently placed him in the chair, then gave a brief nod and watched the brunette leave before turning back to Anthony. "Do you know who I am?" It was a simple and honest inquiry, not a condescending question.

"The person who saved my life," he asked rhetorically. He motioned towards the middle-aged man, who had positioned himself a few feet behind the woman in a guarding stance. "That's all he told me about you."

She spared the man another brief glance, then looked back to the marine and continued. "And what of my hair, or the color of my eyes? Do they mean nothing to you?"

"I've never seen or heard of anyone with hair and eyes like you." Perhaps it was his inner fool – the one that seemed to be drawn to this stranger's exoticism – that encouraged him to say more. Or maybe the disgruntled Devil Dog inside him that hadn't personally interacted with a woman in a considerable amount of time was making a little push. Whatever it was, it seemed he just couldn't help himself. "But they don't mean nothing to me, ma'am."

To this, one corner of her lips turned upward in a barely noticeable half smile. However, her expression faded back to impassiveness nearly as soon as it occurred. As for the man behind her, his gaze narrowed into a glare as a controlled but still very visible grimace spread across his face. "She is not a 'madam'-"

He was quickly interrupted by the woman's swift raising of her hand. "It is alright. I am sure he meant no offense with the title." As she went on speaking, her violet eyes never looked away from the marine's. "Tell me. Do you know where we are?"

Anthony's eyebrow lifted to the odd question, even as a strange knot began forming in his gut. "Not really. Somewhere in Afghanistan... right?" He looked back and forth between the woman and the middle-aged man, their lack of an immediate and affirmative response unsettling him further with every second that passed. "Where else would we be?"

When she did answer, her voice was slow and carried with it what sounded like a hint of sorrow. "You are not where you think you are." The woman stood up then, her gaze finally leaving his look of bewilderment, and walked over to the balcony to stare upon something unseen by anyone else. "In fact, I believe there are many things you will come to learn are no longer true."

It was at this point the marine was becoming severely agitated. First it was the older man and his irritable attitude, and now it was this woman – who's charm was beginning to wane in Anthony's eyes – with her ambiguity. If he wasn't in Afghanistan anymore, then where was he and how did he get there? Why couldn't someone just give him some straight answers? And now that he thought about it, where was all his gear? "Enough with this," he declared, his grievance clearly heard. "I'm thankful for you saving my life,  _really_ , and I have no idea how to repay you. But can you people just tell me what the hell's going on already? Where am I, and  _who are you_?!"

The silver-gold haired woman turned back to him then, a certain authoritarian edge now carried in her expression. When she spoke, it was with a sharpness that told of her annoyance with his sudden rudeness. "I sympathize with your frustration, but if you truly appreciate the charity I have given for your life, I insist you do not speak out of turn."

A small growl rumbled in Anthony's throat. He wanted to stand up and yell, asking who the hell this woman thought she was, but he didn't. Somehow, someway, she had saved his life. As much as their approach to his questioning angered him, he had to give her the respect she deserved. She didn't need to save him, a random stranger in the middle of the desert, but she did so anyways. It was also entirely possible he held himself back merely because she was a beautiful woman. He was a young twenty-year-old sexually-deprived Devil Dog, after all.

Silence was consent, and seeing as the marine wasn't going to say anything back, the woman gestured toward the middle-aged man at her side and continued speaking. "This is my most trusted advisor and confidant, Ser Jorah Mormont. I have no doubt of his name's unfamiliarity to you." She paused only for but a short moment, seeing Anthony's waiting gaze. "I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of My Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, and Mother of Dragons." She walked back to the table, but didn't return to her seat. Instead, she remained on her feet, standing over and looking down upon the perplexed expression of the marine. "I will not pretend to understand how or why you arrived in that lifeless desert from which we found you, but..." Suddenly, her voice and eyes took on a more solemn mood. "I fear this is not the world you know, Anthony Weber."

**CHAPTER END**


	4. - III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Game of Thrones TV series and A Song of Ice and Fire books are the sole property of HBO and G.R.R. Martin, respectively. All characters depicted here, besides my OC(s), belong to their legitimate owners.

**III**

**Jorah**

He watched and waited, patient and vigilant. He used each passing second to gauge the recently awoken stranger's reaction. Would the man have a fit of hysteric laughter, thinking what he was told to be a bad joke? Would he cry out his disbelief, denying his current circumstances? Or would he lash out with mixed emotions? Jorah didn't know Anthony Weber. Even though Daenerys had shared some of what was written in the journal they found, only she had read it. She likely had a better understanding of what kind of person they were dealing with. With that being the case, though, it was still impossible to truly determine who exactly Anthony was without any prior interaction. What were his greatest fears? His proudest strengths? Was he conceited? Audacious? Was he principled and honor-bound? Did he have a benevolent nature? Or was he a man who delighted in cruelty towards others? The Westerosi exile just didn't know.

And so, he observed like a wary hawk.  _To protect Daenerys_.

Several moments passed after the Mother of Dragons had provided an answer – if a somewhat vague one – to Anthony's question regarding his whereabouts. It was several moments of silence with the man merely staring at her, an expression of utter confusion on his face. Jorah started to wonder if he would say anything at all, up until the moment the sound of laughing began echoing throughout the room. It was quiet at first; a chuckle barely escaping the lips. But it raised in volume soon enough, eventually reaching the point where anyone outside was surely hearing it.

 _So it is to be the first_ , he thought sourly.

Daenerys visibly grew agitated. She didn't groan or necessarily scowl in an outward show of frustration, but there was a distinct fire that reached her eyes. "You find this humorous?" Her voice was nearly muted by Anthony's laughter, but he seemed to hear well enough. The way he looked at her before gradually beginning to calm himself down indicated so.

"I find it fuckin' hysterical," he declared as he wiped away a small tear building up in his right eye.

That was something Jorah had caught onto quickly: Anthony's unabashed attitude and apparent lack of manners. Ignoring the man's strange and unrecognizable accent, he spoke like an uneducated commoner even while his journal provided evidence to the contrary. Although most of his entries were described by Daenerys as hasty and unintelligent, she also told of a few instances where it appeared he had put real thought and effort into what he wrote. It was obvious he knew how to read and write effectively. However, the fact made it that more concerning when he decided to act and speak in such a rash manner. The least the man could have done when approached in a civilized fashion was not behave so undignified.

"You stand in the presence of a lady," Jorah stated heatedly.

"I'm apparently talking to a  _queen_ , didn't you hear? 'Queen of the Andals and the First Men', whoever the hell they are." Anthony chuckled again, apparently finding everything funny. "What was that, like four titles?"

"It was  _five_." Daernerys' glare was deathly, seemingly trying to burn with looks alone.

"Right, because that makes it  _so much better_." The man burst into another small fit of giggling, his hand coming up to cover his mouth in a futile attempt to keep himself quiet.

It was at this point Jorah's patience had run dry. With his anger obvious, he took a step forward and brought his hand to the pommel of the sword at his hip in an intentionally exaggerated fashion. He wanted Anthony to know he was armed and ready to use the weapon. "You will cease your disrespect or I will cut out your tongue!"

The man's gaze traveling to the sheathed sword before moving back up to lock with the Westerosi exile's own stare, but he didn't seem to be either threatened or afraid by the warning. In fact, he appeared unimpressed. "You're going to use a  _sword_?" He looked between Jorah and Daenerys with an amused incredulity. "Are you kidding me? You live in a place like this and somehow can't get some old A-K off the black market?" In a surprising show of strength and willpower, he then pushed himself up off the seat with only the slightest wince. It gave Jorah an excuse to draw his sword halfway from its scabbard. "Fine," Anthony exclaimed loudly. Standing fully, the expression on his face was now dark and... rabid. "Go ahead and try it!"

"You believe I won't cut you down where you stand?" Jorah was becoming uncertain with this turn of events. This wasn't how the meeting was supposed to play out, and now this unarmed stranger was raving like a lunatic.  _In front of Daenerys no less!_  He was practically begging to be gutted with a blade. "Do you truly have such little care for your own life?"

Anthony's lips curved into a vampiric smirk. "I haven't been afraid of death for a while now."

An intense silence filled the room in the following moments, leaving Jorah to momentarily wonder what it was they had been thinking when they decided to nurture the crazed man back to health. He quickly concluded they should have just left him in the desert to die from his injuries and save themselves from this madness. "So be it." With a little bit of satisfaction, he took hold of his sword completely. The sound of drawn steel bounced off the walls.

"You will yield your blade, Ser Jorah!"

The exiled knight froze in place at the command. His eyes were determined yet pleading when he turned to look at the Mother of Dragons. "Khaleesi..."

Her sour stare never left Anthony as she continued. "There will be no blood spilled here today," she declared in a lower volume. Her tone, however, was still fierce and dominating. "Not yet, anyways."

Jorah looked back at the man with a strong desire to slay what he perceived to be a threat, regardless of what was ordered of him. He controlled the urges, though. No matter his enmity for the stranger, his feelings and respect for the woman he followed were greater. With an acute reluctance, he stepped back and sheathed his sword.

"Anthony Weber..." Daenerys' face contorted with disgust and disappointment when she addressed him. "I risked the lives of my people, when they were starving and with little hope for survival, to save you. I dared to make the risk even when I was advised against it. And now? Now you dare stand here and mock me. You disrespect my name and my advisor – my  _friend_  – after all we had done for you?"

Anthony took a shaky step backwards as his dark expression faded away. Taking its place was shame and sorrow, the realization of his despicable behavior apparently coming to him. The Khaleesi's words were hitting with the force of an arrow through the heart. "I-"

"Your excuses, your shame..." she interrupted coldly. "They mean nothing to me. Not now." She walked around the table and moved closer to him, daring the man to meet her gaze. He couldn't. "I asked of you to hold your tongue and remain courteous out of respect for me. Yet no more than a few minutes did it take for you to fail at that simple request. Are you aware of what that implies?"

"..."

His lack of a response only made her narrow her eyes more. "Since you aren't denying so, am I to understand you hold no respect for me? The one person who ensured your survival?"

To this, Anthony finally snapped his head around to look directly into Daenerys' violet stare. "No! I couldn't thank you enough!"

"Then explain why you would disregard all my efforts. Why attempt to throw yourself upon the nearest blade as soon as you awake?"

Once again, he let loose a chuckle. But unlike before where it was laughter in the face of something humorous, not an ounce of amusement was now carried with it. It was instead dejected and mirthless. "Because what you're saying makes no damn sense."

She continued glaring at Anthony for a few seconds before turning around and returning to the balcony railing. "And what, pray tell, confused you enough to act so shamefully?"

"Do I really have to explain that?!" His wide and disbelieving eyes shifted to Jorah, as if wordlessly asking the exiled knight to tell him otherwise, before turning back to the silver-gold haired woman. "You're over here tellin' me you're medieval royalty, and talkin' about houses and titles and shit! 'Queen of the Andals'? 'Khaleesi of the Grass Sea'? Or better yet, ' _Mother of Dragons_ '? The hell is that even supposed to mean?!"

Daenerys turned her head to the side, motioning over her shoulder but not looking back at Anthony. "Do you say that because you don't believe my claim as a monarch?"

"It's everything," he admitted bluntly. "Not only do you expect to believe you're some queen, but also that you just  _happened_  to come across me while I was unconscious in the middle of  _Afghanistan_? You can't stand there and tell me that doesn't sound absolutely fuckin' crazy!"

Jorah liked to believe his knowledge of the known world and its recorded history was better than most, likely only bested by that of the maesters of Oldtown. Ever since his expulsion from Westeros, he had visited nearly every major point of interest in the continent of Essos and read about the rest. Yet there is was. Afghanistan. The name of a country unknown by any map or people. A place the exiled knight had never heard a single reference to in all his travels. It was a significant reason, among others, that caused him to first think Anthony's journal nothing more than a work of fiction. As he looked upon the man's expression of honest bewilderment and exasperation, however, Jorah began doubting his assumptions. He still refused to accept everything that had been written down in that book as the complete truth. Too much of what was in there would have been unbelievable even for the most gullible of men. But if there was one thing he was certain of, it was that Anthony Weber believed Afghanistan was as real as this very room.

"But we did not find you in this 'Afghanistan,'" Daenerys affirmed.

"What? What do you mean you didn't find me in..." Anthony paused and brought his palm to his forehead, stress and an even more severe level of confusion crossing his face. When he continued speaking, it appeared it was more to himself than anyone else. "That's impossible! The Blackhawk was en route to Bagram. There's no way it could have crossed the border!"

"I can assure you that you had not crossed any country's borders beforehand." Daenerys was staring at him again, her eyes giving away no indications of dishonesty. "You were laying in the middle of the Red Waste, the largest desert in Essos. Alone and hundreds of miles from any signs of civilization."

"The 'Red Waste'? 'Essos'? What the hell are you talking about?!"

"I do not like to repeat myself, Anthony Weber."

Anthony's skepticism became visible. "You're kidding me, right," he asked with a snort. "That bullshit you said about this being a different world?"

Daenerys' eyes lit up with the intensity of a roaring flame once again. She clearly didn't take kindly to the idea of being accused of lying. What she said next in response to the implication was raised not in volume, but in sheer tone and ambience. Her voice was firm and dominating in comparison to Anthony's puzzled and desperate. "Ser Jorah. Retrieve us a map."

—

They were now alone in the room, Anthony Weber having returned to his own lodging a minute prior. The previous conversation, if it could have been called that, had been tiring. The Westerosi had never removed his hand from the pommel of his sword. Even with the map of the known world at hand, Anthony had been stubborn to accept what the Mother of Dragons attempted to convince him. When he saw the parchment displaying the continents of Westeros and Essos, he questioned its integrity. He said such lands did not exist. However, his words had been shaky. Jorah's previous use of the sword especially seemed to cement those seeds of doubt, if not curiously so. Their argument began turning in their favor even further when Daenerys explained they had never before heard of the countries he spoke of. The 'Afghanistan' his journal said he waged war in and the 'United States' he had eventually personally admitted to being his homeland. When she had finished presenting her case with all the seriousness in the world to prove she was not lying, the 'American' – that is what he titled himself as – had frozen in place with a dreadful look before quietly leaving with a painful limp. He even refused to accept aid by Irri, who had been waiting outside during the entirety of the meeting.

And so there they were. "That man should not remain here," Jorah implored Daenerys. "He is too dangerous."

She gave him a questioning look. "You find him too much for you to handle?"

"I find him to be a threat we shouldn't give to chance." Jorah didn't trust Anthony Weber. He was the soldier of an unknown faction with unknown intentions and agendas. His journal did not help the matter; the way it seemed to glorify the 'War in Afghanistan' at some points was disturbing at times. On several occasions in the book he had referenced how the warriors like him – the 'Marines' – were trained to be cold blooded killers. 'Born to Kill,' in his own written words. And if the recently finished discussion showed anything of his mental health... "He is not of a stable mind. And his disrespect toward you and your name-"

Daenerys interrupted before he could finish that last statement. "His disrespect, while  _despicable_ , was not intolerable." She met her advisor's gaze, eyes soft but steady. "We must remember he is not of this world, Ser Jorah."

He didn't want to admit to her he still didn't believe that claim. The ramifications of such a fact would've had to entail the only oddity that could have made it possible: Magic.  _That_  was something he simply wasn't willing to recognize as reality. However, he kept his opinion of the matter to himself, not wanting to approach the subject of another disagreement. "And that is exactly why you need to practice caution!"

"Do not  _presume_  to know what I need," she countered sharply, no longer carrying any softness in her nature.

Jorah frowned slightly, recognizing his poor use of words. "Khaleesi... we know little of where he comes from. What we do know is entirely from the man's own accounts."

She stared at him for a moment longer before looking away back towards the direction the wounded man had left. "I understand your concerns-"

"Yet you ignore them."

"-but I don't believe Anthony Weber holds any ill intent."

He didn't understand. How could she be so  _blind_? Anthony was unpredictable, rash, and had no respect for those of noble blood. The man had a lethal skillset as a trained soldier, even if said abilities were not fully understood. Jorah saw the clear and present danger posed, but he just couldn't figure out why Daenerys didn't. "How can you be sure of that? Why do you insist he is a good man after what you've seen of him?"

"I do not insist anything!" Her fierce glare and heavy tone prompted his silence. A moment later, she turned to the room's round dining table and walked towards a small rectangular-shaped bundle of Dothraki cloth. It had been laying there since earlier in the morning. When she unwrapped it, Anthony's journal was revealed to be hidden within. She quietly stared at it for several seconds before speaking again, her voice having turned slightly sober. "I had intended to return it to him."

It took some contemplation, but Daenerys' reasoning finally dawned on him. She hadn't shared all that was discovered to be written inside the Journal. She was hiding  _something_ that promoted this forgiving nature toward Anthony Weber... and it hurt Jorah to think she couldn't trust him well enough to tell him. "What don't I know," he asked slowly, almost in a whisper. He didn't intend for it to sound like a demand.

"Nothing that you have any business to know."

 _But you have the right_ , he questioned her angrily in his mind. The bitterness he felt at the unreasonable answer gave him cause to speak out with a bit more intensity. "How am I to understand-"

Her fingers were flipping carefully but aimlessly through the pages of the booklet as she interrupted again. She still didn't look back at him. "You don't need to understand our guest. Only ensure he causes no harm."

How was he supposed to defend against a threat he did not understand? "But you need to understand him," he asked with growing boldness and skepticism.

Only then did her gaze finally meet his, her vivid violet eyes containing a certain sadness. The emotion, however, wasn't for him. "Someone must." She kept hold of their locked stares for a little longer, but refused to say more before eventually turning away and motioning to leave. When she reached the top of the staircase leading to the courtyard below, she stopped for merely a brief moment. "It is as you said that night. Anthony Weber is a broken man."

His eyes widened as he watched her descend the steps, his mind going back to that particular memory.

* * *

**_Two Days Prior..._ **

The contraption was laid down horizontally on the large table in front of him. A complex puzzle daring to be solved. He had been examining it for some time now, attempting and often failing to decipher its exact purpose. It was completely foreign to anything he had ever experimented with before. It was large and metallic – although not all of it he discovered was in fact metal – yet still incredibly lightweight and easy to wield for its size. He did, however, make some recent revelations. Firstly, he believed he managed to figure out how the damn thing was meant to be held. The larger, blander piece on its backend was eerily similar in design to a heavy crossbow stock while the handle piece placed just behind the barrel-like fixture at the front felt as if it had been intentionally crafted for a man's hand to hold. Which further implied it was, in fact, a device meant to fire projectiles of some sort.

And that led to the next and more important discovery. Hidden inside the strange boxes that had been carried within the pouches of Anthony Weber's vest were these small cylindrical pieces of bronze no longer than his index finger. Hundreds, all exactly alike in shape and size with one end pointed and the other flat, packaged and linked together in some sort of chained belt. Underneath each one was an engraving that began with the letters 'HP' and ended with an assortment of four numbers. It didn't make any sense to him, but he shrugged it off and went on to mull over an idea that came to mind. Were these the projectiles the contraption fired? He didn't see how they could possibly be so; they were too small to be comparable to an arrow or a bolt. Regardless, it was the only conclusion he could come up with.

A woman's voice broke the quiet of the dimly lit room, ceasing Jorah's actions before he could potentially test the theory. "Find anything of interest yet?"

He turned behind to see Daenerys standing in the open doorway. She was wearing a dark purple nightgown, obviously prepared to rest for the night once finished with this conversation. They had been in Qarth for about three and a half days now, and her once sunburnt skin had finally reverted back to its pale – albeit still slightly tanned – hue. There were still marks on her skin here and there, displaying the flaky and dead skin peeling off, but they were only visible unless one was to look closely. "Possibly."

She walked over to the table at a slow and slightly tired pace. When she reached his side, her gaze traveled down to the contraption. "Then by all means, Sir Jorah. Proceed."

He nodded at the subtle command and returned to the belt of small bronze objects laid upon the table. "I believe I may have found what its shoots," he explained while lifting it up for her to see.

The Mother of Dragons raised a curious eyebrow to show her interest. "So you've concluded it's indeed a weapon?" He nodded again in affirmation. "And you think it shoots these bronze... whatever they are, rather than a bolt or arrow?"

"The boxes we found in his vest contain hundreds of them, all linked together in these odd belts that appear specifically designed to carry them. But what I found interesting are their proportions..." He placed the belt back down, then retrieved a caliper from an assortment of scientific instruments arrayed at the side of the table. "Each individual piece has the  _exact_  same length and diameter." He demonstrated this by measuring the length of one of the bronze projectiles at the very end of the belt with the caliper. Then, without adjusting the tool's jaws, moved on to the next piece. And the one after that. All three fitted inside the space of the jaws perfectly. "I've measured them at about fifty-seven millimeters long, and a little less than a centimeter wide at the base of the flat end."

Daenerys' eyes widened in amazement as her hands maneuvered to pick up the end of the belt. "How can that be," she asked more to herself, her voice nearly a whisper. "Such precision between so numerous metal workings-"

"-would require craftsmen equal in skill to those of Old Valyria," Jorah finished for her. He too had been amazed by the revelation after he first discovered it. But also intimidated by what it might imply to the capabilities of Anthony's home society. "Perhaps greater."

Their musings, however, were soon interrupted by an abrupt wail of pain, it echoing from the room's doorway and the corridor outside. It came just as fast as it went, leaving the world quiet after only a second or two. Jorah's first reaction to the sound was to reach for his sword and position himself between Daenerys and the door. He immediately expected the worst, associating such noise with the act of a blade gutting a man. "What was-"

He silenced her quickly with a mumbled 'shush' and a finger over his lips. A few seconds later, the repeating sounds of footsteps coming from the hallway began growing in volume. The exiled knight pulled his sword from its scabbard then, although slowly as to not allow whoever was approaching to hear the steel be unsheathed, and assumed a defensive Middle Guard stance. The hilt of his sword was held low and to the center while the sword itself was pointed upward.

Fortunately, he didn't have to shove his blade into the first person to walk through the doorway. Rakharo would have lost his face otherwise. " _Khaleesi_ ," the Blood Rider immediately called in Dothraki as soon as he appeared and laid eyes on the woman. There was a sense of urgency in his tone. " _It is the man. You must come._ "

Knowing who he was referring to, Daenerys stepped forward still wary but now a bit relaxed in stature. " _Is he awake_ ," she asked in the same language.

" _No, but he is moving._ " It was clear he didn't fully understand what was going on either." _You must come and see for yourself._ "

She shared a look with Jorah, both having puzzled expressions on their faces, before accepting Rakharo's request with a nod. The Blood Rider led the way as they left the room and proceeded into the corridor, the Mother of Dragons following behind and Jorah remaining closely at her rear after returning his blade to its scabbard. The trio managed to wordlessly walk halfway down the hall, nothing but the occasional flicker of torch flames to break the silence, when another cry sounded off. This one was louder than the last. " _Was he hurt_ ," she asked almost accusingly.

" _No_ ," he replied quickly, addressing the underlying question as well. " _He began speaking in his sleep a few minutes ago, and we thought he would wake. But he didn't._ "

They reached the open door to Anthony's room before anymore could be said, walking inside to be greeted with the mournful moans of the unconscious man. Irri was already at his bedside, holding him at the legs while another Dothraki man – the room's nighttime guard – kept a tight grasp of his forearms. Anthony wasn't violently thrashing about at that very moment, but he was sweating quite profusely and slightly writhing around in the bed. " _Why is he being held down_ ," Jorah asked at the sight.

" _He was moving. Kicking and swinging_ ," Irri answered. " _We are making sure he doesn't start again._ "

Daenerys immediately moved to the side of the bed and almost pushed passed her adviser in doing so. She had a worried expression as she looked down at Anthony's pitiful state, particularly taking interest in the over abundant drops of sweat coating his skin. " _Is he with fever?_ "

" _I believe so_."

The Mother of Dragons placed the back of her hand on the man's forehead in response, wishing to confirm the suspicion herself. Her eyes widened near-instantly. "He's much too hot," she stated aloud in Common Tongue before turning back to the Dothraki woman. " _I thought his wound was cleaned?_ "

" _It was, Khaleesi, and still is. It is not the cause of the fever._ "

Her gaze went back down to the bedridden man again, confusion and uneasiness written on her face. It was then she noticed his lips were moving even though he wasn't still moaning out his suffering. She bent down, head turned to the side and ear close to his lips, and listening intently to his mumbling. Jorah mirrored the action, although remained somewhat distant as to not obstruct her. All he managed to hear was two words.

"Should have..."

It wasn't entirely surprising for the exiled knight to hear Anthony speak Westerosi considering the man's journal was written in the language. However, it was nonetheless a notable moment. And one he had to ignore for the time being; whatever else had been said was enough cause for Daenerys to be taken aback. "What did he say?"

She lifted her head up and straitened herself before turning to Jorah. Her voice was slow and quiet as she answered. "'Should have been me.'"

**CHAPTER END**


	5. - IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Game of Thrones TV series and A Song of Ice and Fire books are the sole property of HBO and G.R.R. Martin, respectively. All characters depicted here, besides my OC(s), belong to their legitimate owners.

**IV**

**Daenerys**

_Entry #9_

_July 25th, 2008_

_Our squad was tasked with a routine patrol and IED sweep around the area today. We'd left Lorenzo at 0600 local time, and had been into it for about an hour. Alpha was in the lead with the 50. Cal, Charlie was in the middle MRAP with Doc and Squad Lead, and we were in the rear. Hernan was driving, I was on the Mk19, Ronnie was just looking out the window keeping an eye out for any trouble, and George was playing some NWA on his CD player in the backseat. The jokes and idle chatter had long died down. We were tired of looking at the same shitty Afghani countryside._

_Then it just happened. An explosion goes off at our front, and I drop down from the hatch like a rock. Hernan's suddenly trying to take back control of the swerving Humvee, George is holding onto his seat for dear life, and Ronnie is cursing up a storm. The few seconds it takes to halt the damn vehicle feels like a lifetime._

_We looked over to the front of the patrol after getting our shit together, and all we saw in the settling dust cloud was a heap of scorched metal and the burning wreck of Alpha's Humvee. It didn't take long for everyone to figure out they'd been hit by an IED. Once we set up security and Squad Lead radioed back to the outpost, a couple of the guys from Charlie began going through the wreckage to find what they could. There wasn't much left. Just bits and pieces here and there. Whatever they did find had to be covered up by blankets or towels._ _A lot of time was spent making sure wild dogs didn't make a meal out of an arm or leg._

_We were the ones that had to go through their stuff when we finally RTB'd. Letters never sent, a few photos of loved ones or a girl they were hooked up with, clothes and all the other crap stuffed in their bedside satchels, things like that. It all had to be packed up to be sent off to their families before the barracks could be cleaned up. I wasn't ready for that, and I don't think the other guys were either. We just sat there for a while at first, not really sure where to start._

_The recruiters never talked about doing this emotional shit._

It was the very last passage from the journal she had willed herself to read. So many words and acronyms she failed to comprehend, but the emotion and vivid gruesomeness was easy enough for her to discern. Reading it for the first time had been the cause of a dramatic revelation: Anthony's book was not just the incoherent ramblings of a common infantryman. It was a memoir, recollecting certain moments that stood out during what was possibly the most stressful time in a pained man's life. Nevermind how she barely understood any of it and would have only grown more confused with every next journal entry. For Daenerys to have read any further, especially without Anthony's consent, would have been an immoral violation of his privacy. An invasion of the man's sacred memories. Mother of Dragons and the true inheritor of the Iron Throne or not, she had no right to do so. It was simply not her place.

There was one question that heavily nagged her mind, however. What was an 'IED', and how was it able to so thoroughly decimate a group of men in the blink of an eye? The consequences of its effects... she imagined Wild Fire, but quickly discarded the idea.  _Doesn't sound right_ , she thought.  _He wrote of some sort of explosion, but not of insatiable green flames._

She closed the book, rewrapped it in the Dothraki cloths, and then stood up from her bedroom's small table set. A few hours had passed since she and Jorah spoke with Anthony, and during that time she had attended to another visit to Qarth's markets alongside Xaro Xhoan Daxos. She had come back to her temporary home only some minutes ago, the young Targaryen finding herself with little else to do but reread select parts of the small booklet. Now she decided it was as good a time as any to pay a visit to the 'Marine'. As she walked down the stairs to the courtyard below past a watchful Dothraki guard, she wondered if Anthony's temper was at ease. She'd surely given him enough time to calm down by this point. Her Blood Riders had also returned most of his personal belongings after she left earlier. If he was still moody, though, making civil conversation with him would likely prove to be difficult after admitting to having read part of his journal. Ultimately, she would no longer be hiding that fact from him come the next hour.

Daenerys nearly bumped right into Jorah as soon as she stepped into the area her Khalasar had established as their lodging. A collision was only avoided by his quick reflexes. "Khaleesi." He was apparently a little surprised to see her there rather than in her chambers. "I was on my way to check on you."

"Xaro accompanied me while I was gone," she stated prudently while continuing onward and motioning for him to follow. "I don't believe there is anything to worry about, Ser Jorah."

He frowned slightly at the statement as he followed suit on her right side, but said no more on the subject beyond, "Of course, Khaleesi."

She knew very well of Jorah's distaste of Xaro. He believed the powerful merchant prince's goal was to gain more power through Daenerys and her dragons; to win her over through charm and objects of luxury only to use her for his own gains later. After the previous night's  _disagreement_ , she also now knew one of Jorah's biggest reasons was jealously. He was emotionally attracted to her in one way or another, and her growing time spent with Xaro was frustrating the older man. Of course, she too didn't trust the eccentric member of 'The Thirteen' – the political body of the city's mercantilist government. The large and dark-skinned man tried  _too_  hard in his attempts to woo her. It often inclined her to agree with her advisor's beliefs. But, at the end of the day, she unfortunately needed her pursuer. He did have the power and money he so liked to boast about, and it was that influence and prestige that would aid in building her army that would sail to retake Westeros from the usurpers.

"Was there something you wished to discuss," she asked, eager to distract herself from the topic.

"None." He paused as he took notice of where she was heading to – the complex's secondary housing structure. "Although I am now curious as to where you intend to go."

"I want to speak to our guest again.  _Privately_." She shifted her head in his direction, but kept her gaze forward. When she spoke again, her voice carried with it a clear sharpness. "Do you think this decision to be unwise as well?"

Jorah's body stiffened slightly. "I would be lying if I said no."

A spark of anger flashed through her eyes, but she kept it under control and unnoticed with a deep yet quiet breath. She understood her advisor's reasoning, truly. He saw Anthony as a complete unknown with a murky background at best, and that was more than enough of a cause for wariness. However, the exiled knight's constant questioning of her choices as of late was becoming increasingly frustrating. His duty was to  _advise_  her, not turn combative with every decision she made for which he disagreed. Beyond that,  _something_  had to be done about their guest. They most certainly couldn't just pretend he didn't exist, left under guard in his chambers forever. Nor could they simply let him go. The mysteries behind his origins and the tools he brought along were too great.

"And are you giving me this council as my advisor or my admirer?" Daenerys knew the question was a bit of a low blow, noticing how Jorah winced. She was still bitter from that nightly discussion, and so felt the urge to remind him with a taste of her spite. To prove the point further, she stopped in place and looked him in the eye before he could provide a response. "No need to answer, Ser Jorah. I'm sure you have more important matters to attend to." And with that she turned back toward her destination alone, feeling somewhat unfair yet right all the same.

She found herself standing in the hallway outside Anthony's room just a few moments later. Rakharo was standing watch in the hallway – being the guard during daylight hours – and nodded in greeting. " _Here to see the strange man, Khaleesi?_ "

" _Yes_ ," she answered plainly, her tone hiding her previous annoyance. " _Has he spoken to anyone while I was away?_ "

He slightly shifted uncomfortably with his next words. " _Not since we had returned his belongings._ "

Daenerys noticed the small gesture of uneasiness. " _Does that trouble you?_ "

He looked to the floor in hesitation, but only for a moment before turning his gaze back to her own. " _It is not the Dothraki way to give back what has been taken_."

" _Nothing had been taken to begin with_ ," she stated stoutly. Rokharo's comment did not come as a surprise, in all honesty, for it was entirely truthful. The Dothraki people were not prone to releasing the items they collected and deemed as their own. She understood this fact, and had very much expected a bit of disagreement within her Khalasar when making the decision to release Anthony's things. Her people, however, needed to learn that some things needed to be changed if they were to achieve their goals. To build an army worthy of retaking Westeros, they needed to adapt. " _The man's belongings were always his. We only held them while he rested._ "

He responded by straightening himself. " _Of course, Khaleesi_."

Although he resigned to her – not that Daenerys left any room for argument – she assumed he did so somewhat reluctantly. It didn't matter. She knew without a doubt that Rakharo would follow and maintain belief in her judgement regardless of his personal feelings. She believed that strongly in his loyalty. " _I want to speak to our guest now_ ," she then said dismissively, but not coldly. The Blood Rider understood her unspoken wish to move on from this distraction, giving no more than a nod before opening the door for her.

The Mother of Dragons was met with an unusual scene inside. The wood-carved table that was supposed to have been at the center of the room was now rearranged along the farthest wall to the right. In its place on the floor was Anthony Weber, the garments provided for him earlier having been discarded in favor of his original oddly colored and patterned uniform. Laid beneath him was a spare blanket for his bed, and he was seemingly using it as a platform for exercising via push-ups. What particularly caught her notice was how he did not appear to acknowledge her entry into the room whatsoever. There was no turn of the head or a hasty glance toward the doorway, as if he did not realize someone had walked in. He remained like this even as she approached within just a few feet, Daenerys getting a good look of the sweat building up in his short hair and the back of his neck. It was then, while she watched him continue his exercise with a curious gaze, that she saw the culprit behind his lack of reaction. Within the man's ears were what at first glance appeared to be small white ear plugs. However, with closer inspection, it was made obvious that they were something else entirely. Thin white strings of some sort dangled from both pieces, falling to the floor and eventually coming together to connect to a narrow rectangular device placed below Anthony's head. It was all white except for a sort of black box taking up the upper portion of the top side.

Before she could investigate further, the self-proclaimed Marine ceased his workout and raised himself to his feet. He finished removing the plugs from his ears and storing the bizarre gadget in his trousers' pocket when his gaze finally wandered in her direction. "Jesus," he exclaimed while jumping back a bit in surprise. Anthony exhaled a stressed breath and placed his hand over his chest. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

Daenerys' lips curved slightly into an amused smile. She would've been lying had she admitted to not finding the unintentional scare to be a little humorous. "We were in the room with you for at least a full minute, Anthony Weber. Perhaps you should learn to be more observant."

"Anyone ever teach you how to knock," he asked with an agitated frown.

Her already small smile retracted quickly, her eyes narrowing. "I was not aware I needed to ask for your permission to wander within my own home."

The Marine snorted at the underlying meaning of her statement. "That doesn't mean you should just barge into someone's room like that and invade their privacy. What if you'd come in and I was butt naked?"

The oddness of that response caused her to hesitate for a split second. "Why would your clothes be off? You've already bathed, have you not?"

"I don't know," he declared with a shrug, sounding somewhat confused by his own comment as well. "I was just giving an example!"

It was quickly becoming obvious that Anthony was a very  _irritating_  individual, and for no real reason either. Just the way he talked – the casualness and borderline disrespect in his tone – so easily seemed to get under her skin. Using an adhesive to glue his mouth shut sounded like an exceptional idea at that very moment. "Do you enjoy infuriating me?"

He paused for a moment, apparently in thought, before suddenly smirking. "Maybe."

The Mother of Dragons could feel the theoretical fire burning in her eyes after hearing his reply. "And what, pray tell, gave you the idea antagonizing me would be  _fun_?!"

Anthony's smirk only grew wider, showing off his white teeth in a sly grin. "Well, you kinda look hot when you get angry."

For the shortest of moments, Daenerys' jaw dropped at the utter  _audacity_  of this man. Of course, that was before she hastily returned to wishing her glare could pierce holes in his chest.  _The nerve...!_  "You dare imply my anger is sexually attractive?!"

"I didn't imply anything," he stated with a chuckle.

She couldn't help but be temporarily dumbstruck by Anthony then and there. His sheer boldness was unlike that of any man she had ever met before. Even Viserys did not match the Marine in this regard; her now deceased brother was more cruel and vulgar than anything else. Sucha gutsy character might have even impressed her, had it instead not so completely disgusted her. "You...  _brute_. Perhaps Ser Jorah should have cut your tongue after all."

Anthony quickly raised his hands up in a surrendering gesture and took a slow step backwards. He must have noticed Rakharo, who was still standing behind Daenerys, threateningly tug on his Arakh. "Woah there, calm down. It was just a joke," so he said, yet the hint of a smirk never left his face.

The thought of letting her Blood Rider make good on Jorah's promise genuinely passed through her mind. However, she tamed the dragon within her heart and controlled herself, motioning her hand for Rakharo to cease. "Your 'jokes' hold humor I fail to see."

The Marine sighed, mumbled about some pole being stuck up something, then turned around with a shake of his head. "So, I guess you aren't here for the small talk," he asked while taking a seat on his bed.

 _It was before you acted like an obnoxious child,_ she thought bitterly. "Most certainly not."

"Then why are you here?"

"To return your journal."

Anthony's body immediately tensed up, eyes widening. His surprised state only lasted a moment, though. "You have my journal," he asked when she revealed the small clump of Dothraki cloth that contained the book.

As she proceeded to unwrap it, all her pent-up ferocity quite abruptly tempered down. It didn't disappear by any stretch of the means, but an unintentional feeling of uneasiness creeped up her spine. She didn't like it. Why should Daenerys Targaryen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea and Mother of Dragons, feel  _nervous_  over something as trivial as returning a book? To a mere footsoldier of a foreign nation, no less? Yes, she had read it when it wasn't her place. And yes, she had truly violated the Marine's privacy by doing so. But those details should have been inconsequential to herself. "Yes," she confirmed coolly. She straightened her back and look directly into his eyes, maintaining her collected and noble appearance. "I've come to assume it means a great deal to you?"

"Yeah... it does." He then took on an interesting look. While his eyes seemed to lightly narrow into a glare, he didn't look all too upset about it. As if he already knew the answer to his next question. "You read it?"

"Some of it," she admitted without hesitation.  _Or visible shame_.

With her admission, she had expected a resentful backlash from Anthony in one form or another. Much to her curiosity, however, all the man gave was a defeated sigh, shoulders slouching and glare vanishing as fast as it came. "Figured as much." Then, he lifted his hand and gestured for her to approach.

Daenerys did so with some reluctance. Not because she didn't want to surrender the journal, but because she had yet to become comfortable with standing as close to the Marine as necessary to hand it to him. The way he nonchalantly motioned her over as if she was his servant also didn't give her cause to behave any kinder. "I had only read as far as the ninth entry," she claimed a bit vexingly as he took hold of the book. "In case you were curious."

To his credit, he didn't turn irritable at the statement. Rather, it appeared he hadn't paid any heed to it at all. Anthony's attention was entirely on the small journal now in his hands, holding it with more care than one might deem necessary and staring at it with a somber smile. He went on to open the book and flip through its entries. When he came upon the ending pages, he stopped and looked at what was written with an even more peculiar expression before closing the book with a clap. "I'm surprised you didn't read further."

Although she knew better, she was still insulted from the unheard and likely unintentional insinuation. "I stopped reading it the moment I realized I had no right to continue. I  _do_ know how to respect others' privacy."

He shook his head and snorted, but didn't otherwise say anything right afterwards.  _Was that in disbelief or dismissal?_ "Do you even understand half of what's written in here," he asked after several seconds of silence.

"No," she said with a shade of embarrassment behind her narrowed gaze. "But I understood enough."

A mirthless chuckle and cocked eyebrow was his immediate response. But instead of commenting further on that, he asked a distinctly strange question. "You want to hear some music?"

The Mother of Dragons didn't know how to properly answer that. "Music?"

"Yeah, music," he repeated somewhat mockingly. It was as if he was being obvious. "The sounds you make with instruments? The stuff you listen to when you wanna dance or maybe just relax?"

"I know what music is," she claimed heatedly. "I am not uncultured. I find the question odd."

"How is it odd?" Now Anthony looked genuinely puzzled, which only served to greaten her own confusion. "It's a simple question."

Now she was on the verge of gritting her teeth. "It may be a simple question, but I don't see how you will be producing any music."

"Haven't you ever heard..." He stopped mid-sentence when his face suddenly shifted into an expression of deep thought. Then, barely a moment later did he abruptly begin laughing, quickly gaining stares questioning his mental health. When he noticed said stares, he did his best to collect himself and spoke again. "Sorry. That was my fault." Daenerys' raised eyebrow demanding elaboration gave him cause to continue. "I should have guessed you've never heard of an IPod."

"… What is an Eye-Pod?"

Apparently, something she said was humorous, because the Marine chuckled again. "A wonder of modern technology," he answered while reaching into his pocket. After some digging, his hand returned to reveal the small white rectangular gadget that was on the floor while he was exercising earlier. Still connected to it were the corded earplugs, albeit knotted together. He quickly untangled them and raised one to her. "Here."

"You want me to put that in my ear," she asked slowly and skeptically.

An immediate and nonchalant "Yes," was his response.

She wasn't convinced of what he was suggesting in the slightest.  _Music without an instrument?_  "So, you are telling me I will be able to hear music if I do?" His nod made her scoff, then nearly snarl.  _Impossible_. "Is this another joke, Anthony Weber?"  _Enough of these games!_  "Because I do not find this funny."

He became exasperated with her reaction, rubbing the bridge of his nose with an annoyed look. "This isn't a joke, okay? Just put it in your ear, and I promise you'll hear music."

It was at this point in her visit Daenerys began wondering why in the Seven Hells she had ever decided to save this crude and uncouth man, let alone stand in the same room and attempt a civil discussion with him. He was one of the greatest frustrations she had dealt with since... well, she'd certainly experienced quite a lot of incomparable situations and people in the past year. Being wed to a Dothraki warlord against her will, inexplicably falling in love with said warlord and bearing his child, seeing her brother mercilessly – and justifiably – executed with molten gold, losing her husband and child to a witch's dark magic... perhaps Anthony Weber wasn't the most dreadful person she'd encountered in quite some time. However, that didn't change the fact he was a disrespectful brute that infuriated her to no end. He made her personally want to wrap her hands around his neck and strangle him, and it had only taken two conversations to reach that point! Gods forbid the Red Waste could have given her a grateful and well-mannered individual to save from near-death.

"Fine," she relented after a moment, walking to the side of his bed. "Hand me the bloody thing. And let us end this affair before I grow ever more intolerant of your presence."

"Here I thought I was adding some excitement to your life." Anthony chuckled briefly before clearing his throat, Daenerys' glare signifying her lack of amusement.

She snatched the strange earplug from his open palm and placed it in her ear without anymore hesitation. "There is already enough  _excitement_  in my life."

The Marine dismissed her statement with a shrug, then looked to the white gadget in his hands. "I don't usually listen to Classical, but there's a few tracks on here." He then snorted. "And I figure that's the only thing you'd like anyways."

"Classical," she questioned, before the small black box on the flat side of his device quite literally  _illuminated_  and snatched her attention away. The Mother of Dragons slack-jawed as her eyes widened at the unbelievable sight. "How-"

And then the music started.

* * *

**_'Weber's Random Tracks'_  
_[Bach Cello Suite No. 1 – Prelude]_**

**_Press Play?_ **

* * *

It started soft, yet constant. The melody – done with what sounded like no more than a single unrecognizable string instrument – was smooth and relaxing, but also ever-present and exploratory at the same time. The rhythm was somewhat fast, but in a manner that gave the impression of continual motion rather than energy and speed. So easy to listen to and understand, yet so difficult to describe. Though odd hearing it through only one ear, the soothing effect of the foreign piece was nearly immediate.

Interestingly, as it went on to slightly drop in pitch before rising back up, Daenerys easily imagined herself traveling aboard a ship. And in this imagination sprung up by the seeds of music, she wasn't sailing in the name of conquest of any land such as Westeros. In fact, she didn't have a destination; it was just her, the sea, and the salt-tinted breeze against her face that her memories of Pentos told her was the cause of the ocean water. Then, near what she figured was near the ending, the tone softened dramatically for the span of a few notes, and she could almost feel the steady buildup that followed. As if she were flying to a grand climax higher than the peak of the tallest mountain. When the conclusion did come, it brought a marvelous sentiment of peaceful accomplishment. Like soaring above the clouds in the sky and knowing all was well in the world.

It was beautiful.

**CHAPTER END**


	6. - V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Game of Thrones TV series and A Song of Ice and Fire books are the sole property of HBO and G.R.R. Martin, respectively. All characters depicted here, besides my OC(s), belong to their legitimate owners.

**V**

**Anthony**

There was just something so endearing about watching her reaction to the music. The look of wonder and amazement in Daenerys' eyes, which only grew as the track continued. Anthony was never a big listener of Classical, having grown up in New York City on the Hip Hop and Pop of the 1990s and 2000s, but he figured she'd have favored one of the select few Mozart and Bach pieces he had on his iPod 6 instead. His assumption, that the old and regal form of music would appeal much more to her 'nobility', proved to be correct. And he couldn't help but smile.

With her baby-smooth skin, dazzling eyes, full lips, and silky hair of a color that shouldn't have been natural by all rights, she truly was a heartbreakingly beautiful woman – when she wasn't acting like a stereotypical condescending bitch.

"I thought you'd like that," he said when the track ended. He removed his earbud and looked directly in her eyes, awaiting her coming opinion.

Contrary to her moody attitude from before, her soft voice gave truth to her current delight. "That was amazing." She removed her earbud as well and turned to him then, meeting his gaze. "How were you able to do that?"

 _Bitch-mode deactivated_ , he thought with a mental fist-pump. _Mission Accomplished._  The marine held up his iPod. "Modern technology."

Daenerys appeared skeptical of his answer, but the corner of her lips managed to rise in a small half-smile. "You jest. How can anything but magic produce music from something so small?"

"Magic doesn't exist," he declared with an amused chuckle. "Where I come from, society is thousands of years ahead of yours. What would look like magic to you is science to me."

She snorted, possibly for being offended. "And are you sure this 'science', as you call it, isn't the same thing as magic?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure," he smirked playfully. He shifted around some on the bed and made himself more comfortable for the conversation. This wasn't at all a topic he had planned on discussing. He was still getting used to the idea he was in a different world or alternate universe, after all.  _Sounds batshit crazy just thinking about it._  "Science isn't some sort of unexplainable force that makes the impossible possible on a person's whim." He took another moment to think about how he would explain things further before continuing. "'Science' is more like a general label for... systems of knowledge that use general laws and proven truths to find outcomes. Like, how to calculate the trajectory of a rock launched by a catapult would be 'mathematical science,' while studying the anatomy of an animal would be 'biological science.'" He scratched the back of his head and grunted. "It's kinda hard to explain. But it  _can_  be explained, if you get what I'm saying."

The self-proclaimed queen spent some time thinking over his explanation. As time passed along, however, she looked to grow more in confusion rather than understanding. "That doesn't explain the eye-pod, as you call it."

Realizing he couldn't really do that without explaining a ton of other crap, he laughed. It would be better to go through all of that another time. He was a marine, not some damn school teacher; he knew how to shoot things, not explain things. Save the headache for later, he figured. "That's way too much information to get into. A lot of it I don't even really know." He pulled his iPod back up and reinserted its earbud, the other still being in Daenerys' hand. "How about we save that for next time and just listen to some more music?"

Her lips suddenly lifted into a small smile.  _Damn, she's hot when she smiles_ , he mentally concluded before he could reel in that train of thought, as well as notice the smile's tiny hint of mischief. "If you were anyone else, anywhere else, I would have seen that as an attempt to be romantic."

Anthony's eyes and smile widened; a sense of humor coming from her was  _not_  something he had predicted. "Wow," was all he could say in between laughter. "I'm offended."

"Are you," she asked and giggled.  _Giggled_.

"Hell yeah. I can be romantic if I want!"

"That is hard to believe, Anthony Weber."

Hearing her say his name this time, with a pleasant sentiment rather than cold authority or heated annoyance, was a great feeling. Naturally, just as it would be for any other fully-grown heterosexual man at the ripe age of twenty, hearing a solid ten-out-of-ten talk like that was a life goal. "If you don't believe me, I can always go listen to music by myself."

"Is that a threat or a bribe?"

He shrugged. "However you wanna to see it. Maybe I just want to be alone with my music?"

"You offered it, not I." The smile on her face was much bigger now, and it served as a good sign of her pleasure with the conversation.  _Much better than when she first came in_.

"I can't change my mind? That ain't fair."

"Many things in life aren't fair."

"Really? Damn, I had no idea."

And for the first time since the two met, Daenerys genuinely  _laughed_. Anthony thought the sound was angelic. "You really are strange."

"I can say the same for you." He grinned at her following chuckle, still staring into those amazing eyes of hers. "So how about we strange people get back to the music?"

"Alright," she surrendered with a sigh, though still smiling. "But we  _will_  continue our discussion on this 'science' of yours later."

"Yeah, yeah.  _Later_." He looked to his iPod, then began scrolling through the installed songs. "So what kind of music do you wanna hear this time?"

She appeared to be surprised by his question. "How many kinds of music can you possibly play?"

The marine thought her question odd, before quickly remembering the circumstances and turning back to her. "Pretty much anything you can think of, and probably more. There are a  _lot_  of forms of music where I come from that you've never heard before. I don't think you'd like most of it, to be honest." He rubbed his chin, which is when he finally took notice of his growing facial hair.  _Will have to take care of that... or not_. "It's all really different from what you heard before."

Telling her this only seemed to make her more curious. "What I heard before – 'Classical,' you called it? Is that what you normally listen to?"

"Not at all," he chuckled. "You  _definitely_  wouldn't like what I usually listen to."

She narrowed her eyes and seemed to pout a little. It was cute. "And how would you know if you don't let me listen to it?"

"Because, well..." He groaned; there wasn't an easy answer to that. He wasn't a hundred percent certain if she would hate old school Hip Hip and Pop, but he highly doubted she would like it either. Daenerys was a woman of upper class and majesty. Classical and Orchestral would be her go-to genres. Modern music, however? It was a long shot. "I don't know. Call it a gut feeling."

"Gut feeling or not, it would be rude to offer me a choice only to then deny the one I make." There was a hint of that authoritarian tone from earlier building up again.  _Really don't want her to go back into Bitch-mode_. "I want to hear the kind of music your people listen to you. Maybe a song you like."

Anthony paused before he could make a comment on her assertiveness. "Why a song I particularly like?"

"I think I'd like to hear it," she claimed without hesitation. "Music that means something to you."

 _Means something...  
_ _Music that means something to me...  
_ _I could give her that._

His grin simmered down to a small smile. "Are you sure? I still don't think you'll like it."

She momentarily looked away and seemed to contemplate his final warning. Then, she looked back into his eyes with determination and nodded. "I don't care. I want to hear it."

After several seconds of silence, he accepted her wish. "Alright." He found the track on his iPod in a quick moment.

 

* * *

 ** _'The List'  
_ ** **_[Track #1: D12 – The Good Die Young]_ **

**_Press Play?_ **

* * *

 

 _[Dialogue]  
_ _Dawg, I shouldn't have left.  
_ _They wouldn't have tried this shit if I was with ya.  
_ _Maybe we would've picked another time,  
_ _Or maybe, chose another way.  
_ _Or maybe my prayers would have convinced him to choose another soul._

 _Shit, it's just me and my man Tony now.  
_ _Man, you look so peaceful right now.  
_ _How can I argue with that?  
_ _They say...  
_ _[Dialogue]_

 _(They say) the good die young,  
_ _That's why I think you should have fun (when you're young),  
_ _'Cos time won't wait for no one (uh huh),  
_ _When God calls, you gotta go home (go home)._

 _They say the good die young (die young),  
_ _That's why I know that we go' have fun,  
_ _'In this life you only get one,  
_ _When God calls for me, don't cry I just went home._

"This was made by a group of singers called D Twelve," he said as the somber beat of the song and lyrics continued. "Close group of friends. They were really popular with the Rap crowd when I was little."

 _But, I guess that's the way things go,  
_ _I was blessed to see 24 (24),  
_ _To wake up to that "Hi, my name is..." video,  
_ _Motivated me to write what I wrote._

"Rap is like poetry rhyming turned into music, but less... classy, than actual poetry.

"Anyways, one day before he was supposed to perform in a show, a member of D Twelve nicknamed Bugz was spending time at a park with a couple of his pals when some gangsters started fuckin' with 'em. An argument started, things escalated, and next thing they know one of the guys pulls out a rifle and  _BANG_." Anthony emphasized with his fingers, making a 'gun' with them and motioning as if it fired. "Bugz gets shot in the chest and neck. Doctors can't save him when he gets to the hospital, and he dies later that day.

"'The Good Die Young' is the song's name. It was written and sung by the other D Twelve members, in dedication to their dead friend."

He looked away from his iPod, and momentarily wondered at how a conversation could take such turns. Daenerys was bickering with him at one point, laughing with him the next, and now he was listening to a song he probably shouldn't have been. Not finding an immediate answer, he once again locked gazes with the woman in question. But as he stared into her eyes this time, and saw nothing more than a warm compassion, he was dumbfounded. There was some small understanding and...  _sympathy_  there. It wasn't right. She shouldn't have been looking at him like that. With an expression of  _pity_.

 _But I can't and you was so close to seein' dreams,  
_ _A coward came along and took you away from the team.  
_ _So don't mistake this track, it's just another song,  
_ _This goes out to everyone who lost a loved one,  
_ _'Cos you know._

Anthony chose to avoid those painfully beautiful violet orbs for the rest of the song. He didn't want to see the emotions she carried, even though he could almost feel her eyes upon him. He didn't want to think about the implications, even though he already had a good idea what they were. And the past wasn't something he wanted to remember at that moment.

Maybe he shouldn't have turned on the song.

_They say the good die young..._

—

The self-proclaimed queen had left his chambers soon afterwards, giving nothing more than a simple goodbye and promise of a later return. She hadn't provided her feelings on the song either. Anthony didn't know if that was a good thing or not, although a lack of blatant distaste certainly wasn't bad, and instead decided to find out was best saved for future discussion. Truthfully, he doubted she liked it much at all. It probably would have been better off; if she didn't like it, she wouldn't ask to listen to it.

So, he was left to his own devices, once again with little more to do than sit and wait. Waiting was something he was accustomed to. Though he hated it, there was plenty of it in military life, more than most outside the Armed Forces usually thought, and it was the one thing in this scenario that he found familiar. When an average civilian imagined life in the military, they typically pictured a day-to-day living filled with adventure and action. It wasn't until they enlisted, struggled through boot camp, and got sent to a unit did they learn just how much time there was to kill. Especially if they were deployed. Of course, once on a battlefield with bullets flying, one didn't think it was a boring affair. But those stretches of time in between combat were  _long_ , and a Marine didn't have much in the way of entertainment when in the middle of some backwards Middle Eastern country. All he had during those gaps between battle were his fellow Marines, exercise, and his own imagination. Now, stuck in some foreign lands under the 'care' of an impassioned monarch, Anthony had concluded he was the lone American in this unknown city, and he had already scratched off exercise for the day. All that remained was his imagination – an imagination that hastily decided, in all its wisdom, that it would focus its attention on said monarch. Particularly the personal differences between him and the young silver-haired woman.

Anthony grew up as an everyday middle-class American citizen in the concrete jungle of the Big Apple, the Bronx specifically. Hip Hop and Pop was all he listened to as a child for the most part. Though he enjoyed most other forms of music as well, anyone who knew him well enough wouldn't have considered it a surprise that those were his two favorite genres. Daenerys, however, was raised in an entirely different environment; this strange world of Essos and Westeros. From his understanding, her childhood was of a liking to nobility in a pseudo-medieval age. Everything in her life was of a higher social class. Quality music was likely more in-tune to Classical orchestra, hence why Bach was his first selection for her. They were two completely different people, of two completely different upbringings. She was a queen in a world of monarchs. Anthony wondered if she had ever even heard of the phrase 'Human Rights' before. He, on the other hand, was pretty much a cliché of the United States Marine. Patriotic, freedom-loving, badass – in his own bias opinion – and tyrant-hating to a T. Daenerys was, in every artificial way, the figure of oppression that opposed the very ideals and principals he stood up for as an American.

But something was wrong with that picture.

For all the ways she found to act like a bitch, she didn't seem to be the common dictator one would expect of a monarch. He really didn't know what to think of her. Every time he formed an opinion of the woman, she did or said something that threw it out the window. And while her mood swings weren't entirely abnormal of her gender, especially if it was  _that_  time of the month, her case was sometimes rattling. One moment she would be this stereotypical despot, essentially carrying an aura that said, 'it's my way or no way.' In the next, she would laugh and act like a typical, albeit spoiled and slightly snooty, teenage girl. Daenerys Targaryen was a conundrum, and he assumed she thought the same of him...

_BOOM_

The moment it happened, Anthony almost jumped off the bed, his Marine instincts yelling at him to pick up the weapon that wasn't at his side. His only accomplishment was grasping air and placing an overt amount of pressure on his injured leg, causing him to wince slightly. It still wasn't fully healed. He didn't expect to it be after such a short recovery time since receiving the wound, but it also wasn't nearly as bad off as it should have been considering he had done some basic exercises.  _Something to think about later_.

The sound was all too familiar. An explosion. But not a loud one, so it was either in the distance or a relatively small device. A small one, he concluded; he had felt the shockwave of the blast, however feint it was. A grenade, or something equivalent to it. That determination made him wonder. If this world was truly stagnant in some form of the Dark Ages, where wars were still fought with swords and bows, how could someone have obtained an explosive? He certainly wasn't an expert on this world's history; perhaps Gun Powder was already discovered but had yet to see widespread usage? The Marine shook his head. He'd only been up for a single day, and the majority of that time had been spent in the room he had woken up in. Not enough time to truly learn anything. Regardless, he didn't have much of a moment to think on it. He needed to act quickly.  _Assess and React._

With a barely noticeable limp, he moved to the door of his chambers. Anthony had ditched the cane Daenerys' people had given him after an hour. He hated feeling disabled; disabled Marines couldn't fight. A few seconds passed after knocking three times on the wooden surface. No response. He opened the door, noting the lack of a sentry outside, and took his first unsupervised steps outside his bedroom.  _Guard goes AWOL at the first sign of trouble_ , the Marine thought curiously.  _These guys ain't a disciplined bunch._

Without hesitation, he took the opportunity presented before him.

**CHAPTER END**


	7. - VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Game of Thrones TV series and A Song of Ice and Fire books are the sole property of HBO and G.R.R. Martin, respectively. All characters depicted here, besides my OC(s), belong to their legitimate owners.

**VI**

**Jorah**

The stench of blood, burnt flesh, and an odd smoky odor permeated the air around the growing gathering, providing a noxious aroma to the exiled Mormont's sense of smell. The ground beneath him, once a clean walkway of paved stone, had been redecorated with burn marks and patches of red. The moans of a few still living, some in pain and others in mourning, broke any semblance of silence in the courtyard. He didn't know what to make of it all. He knew  _what_  he was looking at, but how exactly the scene before him came to be remained elusive. Especially the mangled bodies of three young Dothraki adolescents. It was as if a small, yet powerful and fiery force tore through them, most of one's arm having nearly been severed. The extent of the lacerations done to the limb was thorough; one would have been hard pressed to recognize it as an arm and hand at all.

Kneeling next to one of the wounded from the incident, a Dothraki mother whose infant child had thankfully remained unharmed, he spoke in her native tongue. " _Can you tell me what happened?_ "

" _I do not know_ ," she said, her tone confused and somber. She held her injured thigh as she did, other arm wrapped tightly around her child. " _One of the boys were showing a prize he took. Then there was a wind, and a great pain in my leg._ "

" _This prize, did you see it_ ," Jorah asked, eyes narrowed. A 'prize' to the Dothraki people was more a stolen item.

She nodded a bit franticly. Her hands were trembling, he now noticed, the shock of recent events having yet to pass. " _Yes, but it was not something I knew._ "

" _I need you to slow down and take a deep breath._ " He watched her take a few. " _What did it look like?_ "

Her shaking hands and rocky speech having calmed down some, the mother remained quiet, her searching expression telling of her difficulty to remember. " _A ball_ ," she declared after a moment.

" _Was it big? Small?_ "

" _It was small._ " She nodded, apparently more to convince herself of the memory. " _Small enough to fit in the boy's hand. And it was... green._ "

 _A small, green ball_ , he thought to himself, somewhat frustratingly. It wasn't a very comprehensive description. " _Were there any markings on it? Anything that stood out?_ "

" _I do not remember._ " The woman's voice cracked, evidently noticing Jorah's frustration, and began panicking again. " _It all happened fast, and I did not look long before walking away!_ "

The Westerosi exile sighed, his irritation deflated. He hadn't intended on pressuring the woman. " _It is alright. You have helped greatly._ " His thankful words appeared to relax her, though her hand was still holding onto her leg wound and occasionally rubbing at its edges. Seeing an opportunity to redeem his previous misguided grievances toward her, he reached for the makeshift bandage. She winced at his touch. " _May I?_ " After a short consideration, she nodded. With her consent given, he proceeded to unwrap the cloth, not truly expecting what sort of injury he would find, and delicately revealed the bloodied mess underneath.

It was the oddest of wounds. Protruding from deep within the open gash in the Dothraki mother's thigh was a solid piece of iron, its visible surface just smaller than a centimeter. It was charred, even warm to the touch, though such an action caused another pained moan from the woman. How such a metal fragment could imbed itself into her skin, was the question that immediately entered Jorah's mind. The next was how far into her thigh it penetrated, and if pulling it out would do more harm than good. " _How much does it hurt?_ "

" _Not as bad as it looks._ " Avoiding the injury directly, he carefully moved his hand to her kneecap, then began slowly moving it up along her thigh bone while intermittently pressing down lightly with his finger. He ceased moving upward once he reached the closest point to the wound. " _Does that hurt more?_ "

" _No._ "

He continued moving his hand a little farther up her leg, then removed it when he was certain there would be no painful response. " _Can you try lifting your leg?_ "

" _I will try_."

He watched as she successfully lifted her left several centimeters off the ground, although not without a hurt expression. " _Good. It is not too deep, and it has not touched the bone._ "

" _Will you pull it out_ ," the woman asked pleadingly.

He looked into her dark almond-shaped eyes, a distinct feature of her Dothraki blood, with an assuring smile. " _Yes, but not here or we risk sickness._ " The Westerosi exile then carefully rewrapped the wound with fresh cloth before calling for a nearby warrior, instructing him to help her move to a comfortable location, preferably a bed. A more genuine smile crossed his lips as he watched her infant child be carried away in its mother's arms, its similar little eyes never leaving his until it was out of sight. Now, with her and the child cared for, he moved to the three bodies and crouched beside them, his smile deteriorating into a frown.

The iron bit that had been lodged in the woman's leg; she had been on the opposite side of the courtyard, a good thirty meters away, when whatever had killed the adolescents and sent the fragment her way occurred. The fact bothered him, and his gut instinct pointed him to the scene of the crime. All the answers  _must_  have been in the details.

Examining the first corpse, the one closest, however, didn't provide additional findings. Nothing but dead flesh and exposed bone. The second and third were where the puzzle pieces began coming together. At first glance, they didn't appear any more mangled, but a closer inspection of the various wounds around the two bodies proved otherwise. Several deep lacerations that had pierced completely through, leaving holes on the back of the body larger than connecting ones on the front, appeared on both. One such wound stole his attention from the rest. In the third body's chest cavity was an entrance hole like the others, but when he searched for an exit one, Jorah found none that matched. Curious, and with an unusual idea coming to mind, he pressed two fingers inside the wound. It didn't take long to hit a strange metallic touch, hidden amidst the bloody heat of the still warm corpse.

Daenerys made her appearance then, the relatively young Targaryen hurrying to the scene wide-eyed and horrified. "Ser Jorah," she called out to him in Common tongue, noticeably in distress, as she stared upon the mutilated bodies. "What happened?"

He removed his hand from the open wound and met her gaze. "Khaleesi." Witnessing the state she was in, in turmoil with the sudden deaths, nearly broke the middle-aged man's heart. He wanted to comfort her in his arms but knew she wouldn't accept such familiarity. Not from him. "I'm still figuring that out myself."

For a split second, she seemed angry with his answer, as if it beyond unsatisfactory. However, seeing a teenage Dothraki girl, likely not much younger then herself, lamenting over one of the deceased boys, softened the Mother of Dragons for a moment. She knelt beside the girl and whispered soft consoles to assuage the youth's grief. "I trust you to find the cause of this." She then looked back to him, strength returned to her voice and fire in her eyes. "The deaths of my people will not go answered."

" _Khaleesi!_ " Rakharo came rushing toward them, noticeably worried. " _Are you hurt?_ "

She turned to him with surprise before sending a questioning gaze. " _I am not hurt. Why are you here?_ "

The Blood Rider stopped in his tracks, likely confused by the sharpness of the question. Then the noxious smell must have reached his senses, for his nose crunched in distaste before he covered it with his sleeve. He spared the cadavers only a brief glimpse. " _I heard a loud noise, sounding like a_ BOOM _. I came to protect my Khaleesi._ "

" _I welcome your protection, but it is not needed. Who is watching our guest?_ "

Jorah recoiled from the implication, then gave Rakharo a harsh glare. " _You left him_ alone _?_ "

Rather than yield to the stern scrutiny, the young Dothraki warrior stood firm and determined. He gave back just as much. " _Blood of my blood comes first._ "

His accusation confirmed, the Westerosi exile wasted not a moment. He started into a run, making for Anthony Weber's housing posthaste, and only barely noticed Daenerys follow behind. They reached the man's room soon enough to find it vacant, much to the Dragon Queen's chagrin and to Jorah's expectation. He had known not to trust him. Now it was a matter of finding their lost 'guest'. Four more Dothraki, including Kovarro, had joined them by this point. They split into two groups; himself, Daenerys, and her Blood Riders in the first, and the other three warriors in the second. The second group moved immediately to begin searching the building's numerous rooms, starting on the same level as Anthony's chambers. He led his own party away, singular destination in mind.

Within the farthest room down the hall they found him, wearing his strange pocketed doublet and searching through the chest Jorah had hoped to find untouched. Having been fashioned entirely for storage, the chamber had no windows. Not a dash of sunlight reached its darkest corners. Though it wouldn't have made much of a difference; evening was already setting upon the day. Only a single candle provided a dim light, with it resting on the table behind Anthony, casting the man's silhouette in an ominous shadow. Yet a helm could still be seen atop his head, it decorated with the same colored pattern as his garments. Attached at the forehead was a black device.

They just finished filing through the doorway, blades drawn and moving to surround him, when the American extracted his finding and lifted it towards them. "Stand back!"

The Westerosi exile ceased his advances and moved in front of the Khaleesi protectively, seeing it for what it was. He never discovered its function, but his imagination had some ideas from past examinations. He was not about to take any risks. " _Stop!_ "

The Dothraki, however, only knowing a weapon to be a sword or bow, didn't know what the man held. And whether it was due to a refusal to obey or a simple failure to understand the order in time, Kovarro continued pushing to Anthony. The response was swift and without hesitation. The large contraption, one of the boxes containing the pointed bronze pieces now affixed to its underbelly, was aimed to the ceiling and released its fire.

_BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG_

Though shortly lived, the ungodly sound that echoed off the walls was akin to a set of lightning strikes all occurring within the confines of the small room, inside the span of a single moment. It brought a bizarre ringing to Jorah's ears, and his hands went to cover them out of sudden reflex. He almost dropped his sword in the process. When he recovered, he found the man's weapon once again aimed at the Blood Riders, who had just about collided with the walls to their backs.

"I said  _stand back_ ," the Marine hollered again.

The other group of Dothraki came rushing into the room then, likely having been drawn by the contraption's resounding effects. Anthony tensed at the new arrivals, and he looked about ready to act when Daenerys stopped the three warriors from moving further. Jorah noticed a sprinkling of dust in her silver-gold braids which hadn't been there before. He curiously ran his fingers through his own hair, surprisingly finding crumbs of the same rocky substance.

"What is the meaning of this?" The Mother of Dragon's voice was fierce and vicious. Her gaze betrayed a hint of fear, however, as it shifted between the American and his alien weapon. A faint woefulness was also heard beneath her ire, if only barely.

As if having just noticed her then, the American briefly lowered his weapon. His hesitation lasted but a moment before he raised it again, though it was never aimed at her. "I'm taking back what's mine, then getting the hell out of here."

"You were not our prisoner!" Daenerys pushed past Jorah, ignoring his objections.

"I was under guard and restricted to my room!"

"You were awake for less than a day. How could we trust you with such freedoms, without knowing the person to be roaming our halls?"

The elder Westerosi interrupted the banter, his greater attention having been elsewhere. "Empty your pockets."

Surprised by the sudden question, Anthony's following stare was deeply suspicious. "You ain't gonna be demanding anything of me, old man."

"What do you have to hide?" Jorah braved the thunderous weapon aimed at his chest and took two steps forward.

"I'm not hiding any-" Thinking to have seen an opportunity, Jhogo moved on him. But the Blood Rider wasn't fast enough; the end of the American's weapon met his advance and was nearly shoved in his mouth. "Get the fuck back, you Haji-looking mother fucker! Lady, tell your boys to back off, or so help me, I'll blow this one's head off." Only when the order was given by Daenerys, and the Dothraki warriors retreated to the chamber's doorway, did the younger man continue where he left off. "Don't lecture me about keeping secrets. You haven't told me everything either."

Jorah firmly stood his ground, an image of stoicism. He couldn't be sure of his conclusions. It was as plausible as it was unlikely for it to have been an intentional action; a distraction to serve a greater scheme of escape. All that proved true was what his own eyes bore witness. Everything else be damned to skepticism and distrust. In that moment, all he could see was a small pouch hanging empty. "Yet your own so far have shown their dangerous nature."

Anthony's stare was scathing, but the remark had its desired effect. He was silenced by the implications. Rather than give a combative retort, his left hand – the one not gripping his weapon's trigger – began patting down the two smaller pockets along the bottom half of his vest. When coming upon the empty one, shock briefly crossed his face before being replaced by a heated desperation. "Fuck!"

Daenerys, on the other hand, appeared mildly confused. "What don't I know?"

The exiled knight let the Marine answer that. And loudly so he did, his foreign accent growing more apparent. "Who the fuck took my grenade?"

 _A small, green ball_ , Jorah recalled. Now the object had a name. "Perhaps you could tell us?" It was more an accusation than a question.

"Fuck off!" The contempt oozed off Anthony's tongue. "I was the one locked in a room. You and Daenerys were the only two people I've really talked to since wakin' up." Taking a step forward, weapon once again aimed at Jorah's chest, a fury not dissimilar to the Khaleesi's burned in his eyes. " _Who_  took my  _grenade_?"

The Mother of Dragons swiftly stepped in front of her adviser, ignoring his minute complaint and pushing through his late attempt to stop her. The American shifted his weapon away in response. " _My people_  do not take orders from you! Cease this petulance and lay down your weapon now." Understanding the unspoken threat of consequences, most of the Dothraki tensed, ready to make a move on her command.

A low, almost animalistic growl escaped through grinded teeth. His weapon remained raised. "You don't have any damn authority over me either. Don't try to demand respect and servitude from me."

They stared each other down then, murky brown meeting deep violet, two stubborn personas conflicting in a battle of wills, both daring the other to push further and harder. Jorah could almost feel the rising intensity. A wild heat on his skin. He imagined two dragons contending, dousing each other in flames that could harm neither. "I am not some mere woman," Daenerys declared, with all the fire of a true Targaryen. "I've been abused and sold like a broodmare, raped and defiled by those most would consider savage. I have lost people close to my heart, and I've killed those who would threaten them. My whole life I have been an exile, running from the blades of men who'd see me dead, the last of my family. And after all that misery, I survived to lead my own people through the Red Waste. After all that suffering, I brought  _dragons_  into this world, the first in centuries." She stepped forward, stopping a meager arm's reach from the American. "After all of that, I saved  _your life_. I've done all that I have with nothing more than the belief in one thing:  _Myself_. Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. I don't demand respect, Anthony Weber. I  _command_ it."

The Westerosi exile watched Anthony express a wide range of emotions as Daenerys spoke. He saw it all, from the shock and pity to the guilt. Even a brindling anger for her past sufferings and an unhidden skepticism at the mention of dragons. When the Khaleesi was finished, her posture an image of barely contained fury, the marine reverted back to his frustration. It was different. He looked at her with a certain gleam in his eyes, one which wasn't there before. Beneath the American's aggravation, Jorah saw an unexpected approval. Or was it admiration?

"It appears the Mother of Dragons has finally met a man to test her metal."

All in the room turned to the deep yet smooth voice of Xaro Xhoan Daxos, the bald dark-skinned Summer Islander casually entering from the hallway as if ignoring the rising tension in the air. Jorah barely contained a grimace. Xaro's mere presence never failed to incite a flicker of ire in the former knight, and he worried how the wealthy merchant might attempt to manipulate the volatile situation.

Xaro's lips curved into a small smile. "And to think I had believed that man was me."

"What the- who the hell are you?" Confusion and suspicion evident, Anthony had already trained his weapon on the newcomer.

"Xaro," Daenerys greeted peacefully, if somewhat unpleasantly so if her glare was anything to go by. "I recommend you not interfere in this matter."

"Its grand size may understandably bring you to forget the fact, but this estate is still my home, Daenerys Targaryen." His tone was pleasant, but the words were sharp nonetheless. "I am obliged to investigate when guests perish within it, and my place among Qarth's gentry particularly requires it."

"Can someone fucking answer me?" His earlier question ignored, Anthony had visibly grown more irritated. "Who is this guy, and what the hell is he talking about? Aren't you the queen?"

Jorah saw the young Targaryen's jaw tightened, but neither of the two managed to form a reply before the Summer Islander spoke. "Forgive me for failing to properly introduce myself. I am Xaro Xhoan Daxos, merchant of Qarth and member of the Thirteen." He gave a small bow, smile wide. The contraption pointed at his chest was casually disregarded. "And you are Daenerys' esteemed charge, a man shrouded in great mystery."

"Since we're being all formal... Lance Corporal Anthony Weber, 2nd Battalion 7th Marines, United States Marine Corps."

The upward curve of Xaro's lips dropped ever so slightly. "I'm afraid your titles are beyond my current knowledge and understanding. Nevertheless, the famed Mother of Dragons has shared much since the start of your stay here, and I would like to finally claim the chance to personally welcome you into my residence. A pity it has to be done at such an inopportune time."

"This  _is_  an inopportune time, Xaro," Daenerys declared bitterly. "This is not the place to be giving cordial introductions."

"And that is where I believe you are wrong. There is no better a time than now." The merchant gave her a momentary glance before turning back to Anthony, his gaze lingering a second too long on the American's weapon. "I will have to respectfully ask you surrender your fascinating device if you wish for cooperation. Hostilities in my own home cannot be allowed, and I fear what the consequences of our Targaryen queen's wrath may bring if we entice it any further."

"I'll be keeping my gun, thank you very much," the marine snorted. "I don't know you, and I sure as hell don't trust you."

"You are not in a position to make any such assertions!" Daenerys's scowl returned. However, Jorah swore he saw a hint of worry in her eyes.

Xaro chuckled, but his smile again faded marginally. "You are surrounded and greatly outnumbered. Even if you were to miraculously manage to escape this room, you certainly won't make it outside this estate's walls. My personal guard, numbering in the hundreds, will see to that. Please, there is no need to turn to violence."

Anthony hesitated, Jorah assuming it was the mention of strong opposition. Then, his eyes wandered the room again, looking over and briefly studying every person in it. It was as if he was weighing his options before his gaze eventually fell back on Daenerys' own. The Westerosi exile shifted uncomfortably. "I can play nice," the Marine stated slowly. "But I ain't afraid to rodeo. You either let me keep my gun, or this shit gets real."

Xaro's lingering smile finally disappeared, replaced by a frown. "I don't thi-"

"I'm not talking to you, you Kanye West-lookin' mutha' fucker. I'm talking to her."

The Mother of Dragons was undoubtedly surprised at the gesture, and the exiled noble understood completely. He asked  _her_. Not Xaro. Not anyone else. For the first time since their venture across the Red Waste began, since they stepped foot in the city of Qarth, someone questioned not what she could give, but what she wanted. After weeks of faux pity and borrowed luxuries by those who would take advantage of her, someone at last gave her a semblance of true respect. Anthony was looking at her as a Khaleesi – as a  _Queen_. Jorah knew it was equivalent to a breath of fresh air for Daenerys, though she maintained her bitterness. It was still in the form of a threat, after all.

"Fine."

And he didn't know how to feel.

—

"Fuck!"

Fists slammed against a rocky surface.

"Fuck you!"

An animalistic growl echoed.

"You just  _had_  to mess with shit that wasn't yours! Now look at you! Are you happy? Content with what you got? Guess it don't matter now, 'cause your fuckin'  _dead_!"

The Marine stood in front of the three bodies, laid side-by-side on stone tables, in a boiling rage. Raging at what exactly, no one was sure. The dead? The living? Himself?

"Stupid fucking kids!"

He began pacing along the tables, seemingly in search for something to hit or throw. Finding nothing which wouldn't result in the desecration of Human remains or a broken finger, he settled for an almost childish stomp of his foot.

"Fuck." And for as vibrant as the fury had burned, it just as quickly appeared to extinguish shortly after. Anthony's shoulders dropped as if having been sapped of all energy, and his hand began rubbing his suddenly tired face.

Jorah and Daenerys watched in stumped silence. Neither had expected such an adverse and conflicting reaction, the intensity and passion of it as unique as its owner.  _A barrel of wildfire waiting to be ignited_. The exiled knight turned to the Mother of Dragons, her dazzling eyes wide and staring upon the estranged man. He momentarily wished for the ability to see the way she did. To see what he could not. The thought was fleeting, however. He would keep trust in her. "You know what killed them," he asked coldly, looking back to the Marine. He was sure of the answer, but the question was obligatory nonetheless.

Anthony released a slow sigh more fitting of a man twice his age. "Yeah. It was the fucking grenade they stole."

Daenerys stepped forward, carefully so until she stood a few feet beside him. "And this,  _gri-nade_..."

"I'm tired of answering other people's questions," he interrupted harshly. "No more. Not until you start being honest with me."

The Khaleesi met his gaze with a heated scoff. "You dare to insinuate I've lied to you?"

"I don't know." Anthony's eyes dark eyes were as cold as ice. "Have you? Because that Zaro guy, or whatever the fuck his name was, didn't seem to give a shit about you being royalty." When she didn't find an immediate answer, he took a creeping step toward her. Jorah responded in kind. "You've shown me the maps, told me about this world like I'm Alice in-goddamn-Wonderland. But, you've barely told me anything about you." Another step, and the Mother of Dragons now visibly cowered at his baleful advance. Steel slid a few inches from a scabbard. "You mentioned you've been an exile all your life. So, what exactly are you queen  _of_?"

**CHAPTER END**


End file.
